


Cross our bridges when we come to them

by RemainNameless



Series: on hiatus i'm sorry [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Derek POV, Derek/Danny - Freeform, Derek/OFC - Freeform, Graysexual!Derek, Lingering Psychological Trauma, Lost Girl references, M/M, Masturbation, Panic Attacks, Post Season 2, References to Kate Argent, Slow Build, Succubi & Incubi, Witches, alternate season 3, side pairings:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 103,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times Derek called the Sheriff "Dad" on accident and the first time he did it on purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the night was all you had

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a monster.  
> Really. It's like every head canon I've ever had smushed into one fic, only with plot.  
> But I'm basically done with this behemoth (AND FINALS, THANK GOODNESS), just editing it out, so expect about weekly updates.
> 
> Either as I'm posting or after, there will be a side-along fic because this is Derek POV and, obviously, he's not going to be there for EVERYTHING that happens. None of that will be posted before accompanying events in this, so it won't be spoilers for unposted chapters of this. (It is tentatively titled the Progress!verse.)
> 
> Title's from Stoppard's "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead":  
> “We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”
> 
> Trigger warnings will be at the end of each chapter as they'll contain spoilers.

Derek needs a new life. Because this one is shit. He can’t catch a fucking break. 

The only way to stop the Alphas is to form an alliance with the Argents, and he _knows_ that, he’s known it for a while, before Scott told him that he could go fuck himself because he and Isaac were going to Chris whether he liked it or not. His pack is already broken and raw without Jackson and Erica, but if Isaac goes too, Boyd will follow. Maybe not immediately, but he will, and Derek needs him. Isaac, too. Hell, even _Scott_ , because he knows, feels, that Scott should be his pack. But now, Derek’s looking at the very real possibility of ending up an omega, and that’s what brings him and Boyd to the Argents’ door. 

Chris doesn’t spit in his face, but it’s a near thing. 

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he asks. Derek can hear a chorus of heartbeats inside. Scott, Isaac, Allison, Lydia, Stiles. Derek steps in front of Boyd a little when Chris’ hand slips behind his back.

“Truce. Peace talks. Whatever you want to call it. I can’t take the Alphas down without you and you can’t do it without me. We’re going to need to work together if we’re going to succeed.” It hurts a little to say it. It’s the first time he’s seen Chris up close since the night Gerard escaped. After months. And here he is, practically _groveling_ to his enemy.

“ _You_ ,” he says, leaning over to look at Boyd, “can come inside. Derek and I need to have a little talk. Straighten some things out.” Boyd looks to Derek, and he gives a nod. Boyd will be safe. He’s done nothing to the Argents. His friends are inside. Nothing will happen to him. It still hurts like abandonment to see him disappear into the house.

Chris shuts the door behind him. Derek tenses.

“I bet they’re hungry in there. Why don’t we go pick up a couple of pizzas, huh?” Chris says, tone a little too sweet for his voice. He knows the three werewolves inside can hear him. 

“I’ll drive,” Derek tells him. Chris would have told him to anyway, but at least this way he can make it look like his choice. 

It’s hard to point a gun at someone when you have to watch the road, or at least Derek imagines it must be. He’s never held a gun.

Five minutes of silence later, he stops at the edge of the woods. Night’s beginning to fall. Derek looks at Chris expectantly, waiting for his demands. Whatever he wants will probably be humiliating, at the very least.

“I can understand _why_ you did it,” Chris says after a moment, “but on the night of the rave, you caused a series of problems that have made things very difficult. There are two ways to fix these problems: either you can do it yourself or I can kill you. I’ve been leaning towards the latter, but Scott’s too young to handle a pack and I don’t need any more teenagers running around making a mess. So. If you help me, I’ll allow a truce and not kill you. If you refuse, or if you exacerbate the problem in any way, I’ll find another way to deal with you. Are we clear?”

Derek taps the steering wheel calmly. “Well, let me think about that. I have no idea what you _think_ I’ve done, so I’d have to say _no_ , we’re not clear, actually.” Chris shakes his head, mouth in something like a bitter smile. He has yet to actually pull a gun, but the threat is there.

“You know, I actually believe that. You’re such an _animal_ , you probably have no idea what you did.” Derek bites the inside of his cheek, knowing his eyes are probably red. He’s a lot of things, but an animal is not one of them. He’s in control of himself, better control than most humans. It doesn’t escape him that if he kills Chris, he’ll be pretty much fucked. And his interior will be permanently ruined. 

“Then why don’t you clear it up, _human_.” Derek’s been raised better than to use that as an insult, but it’ll get him what he wants.

“My wife. Victoria. Maybe you remember her? Red hair, well-dressed, could kill you in about five hundred ways without blinking.” Chris looks down at his hands as Derek remembers her standing over Scott as the boy had choked and gasped for breath. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but in my family, it’s custom for a hunter who’s been bitten to be put to death. Traditionally, we kill ourselves instead of placing that burden on another’s shoulders.” Derek grimaces. If nothing else, if Kate hadn’t happened and his family were still alive, he’d hate the Argents for this. For thinking that it’s better to be dead than to be how he and most of his family were _born_.

“I don’t see how any of this has to do with me,” Derek says with a little shrug. He will _not_ kill Chris. He will _not_ kill Chris.

Chris snorts. “Really? That’s funny because you _sentenced her to_ _death_.” 

“Your wife was bitten?” Derek asks, trying not feel a little smug about the irony. “And you think I did it? How stupid do you think I _am_? Do you honestly think I would bite the leader of your little family with Gerard and a kanima running around? I had enough problems of my own to deal with. I didn’t need to be head-hunted on top of that.”

“Scott couldn’t have done it,” Chris says with a frown. “He’s not an Alpha. You’re the only one.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you know, except for the _five other Alphas_ who’ve been in town since just after the night Peter killed Kate.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Derek lets him sit in that feeling for a moment.

“What exactly were you going to ask me to do, anyway? I’m not Peter; resurrection’s not my thing.”

Chris rubs a hand over his face. “She had to wait. There was too much that Allison had to learn. Then the full moon forced her hand, and by that point, it was too late. She’d turned. I couldn’t kill her, but Gerard needed to believe that she was dead, or he would do it himself. She’s been hiding for some time. We’ve been worried that with you as her Alpha, you would have some sway over her.”

“So, what? You were going to ask me to cut her out of my pack? You _do_ realize that if I’d been the one to do it, I would have _at least_ known about her, and she would have been able to sense me in return. But she’s not one of mine.” Derek shrugs. “I don’t envy you.”

“Then you’re going to tell me how to cure her,” Chris says with certainty, “or you’re going to help me kill her Alpha so that she can be free.” 

“Ignoring the fact that there is no _cure_ because it’s not a _disease_ , why the _fuck_ should I help you? You have nothing on me now,” Derek tells him.

“I have Scott, which means that I have your pack. _They like him more than you._ ”

Derek feel suddenly cold. He tells himself that the steadiness of Chris’ pulse only means that he believes it, not that it’s true. But it _is_ true. Isaac isn’t really his anymore, and Boyd could be persuaded away from him. He’ll have no one. A lone wolf can’t be an Alpha. 

“Scott isn’t an Alpha,” Derek says quietly, calmly. “It doesn’t matter what they think because he doesn’t have a pack for them to join.”

“If I can’t convince Scott to kill _you_ , I’ll be able to convince him to kill one of the other Alphas. There’s five, didn’t you hear? And then he’ll take your pack and you’ll have no one. Except for _maybe_ your uncle, who will be dealt with as soon as everyone else has been. You’ll be alone, Derek. Do you even know how to be alone? I imagine coming from a family as big as yours, it’s hard to picture. But I suppose you’ll have plenty of time to work on it. If the Alphas don’t kill you, that is.” Chris shrugs, tapping his fingertips together. “ _Or_ you could help me, and I could work on persuading Scott to join your pack.”

After a second, Derek tells him, “Fine. We have a deal.” 

They don’t shake on it.

 

“I believe I was promised _pizza_. Why is there no pizza?” Stiles says when Derek and Chris enter the Argents’ living room empty-handed. “You need to work on your Secret Alpha-Killing Team Meeting etiquette.”

“It was _code_ , idiot,” Lydia says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “They just wanted to talk without being overheard. _Duh_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, says, “I _know_ that, but if they were being _super_ secret, they would have brought back pizza as a cover. Which they obviously didn’t think of, meaning their skills need _work_.”

“He has a point,” Boyd says with a judging look at Derek. _Jesus Christ_ , if this truce means Boyd will side with _Stiles_ over him, Derek might as well give himself up to the Alphas now.

“Well, I’m going to order pizza because we’ve been sitting here for half an hour with empty stomachs, and then we’re going to get down to business. Alright? Good. Talk amongst yourselves,” Allison says. Derek realizes for the first time that with Victoria assumed dead, Allison’s the leader of the Argent clan. Technically, she’s the one Derek _should_ be dealing with. 

“Am I allowed to grab something to drink from the fridge or should I ask someone or…?” Stiles asks, looking around. He shouldn’t even _be_ here, but Scott’s apparently dumb enough to drag his very human, very breakable best friend into this mess. Lydia probably shouldn’t be here either, but his instincts say that she’s a little bit pack because of Jackson. 

“You can help yourselves,” Chris says with a grimace. “As long as it’s not beer.”

The teenagers all get up and start moving in the direction of the kitchen. Boyd looks at Derek with a raised eyebrow, asking if he wants anything. Derek mouths _beer_ at him. Boyd smirks, mock-saluting. 

“You’re comfortable having the humans involved?” Derek asks Chris. “They’re still _children_. It’s not safe.”

“Lydia’s been mauled by a particular monstrous relative of yours at a school dance, hallucinated him for at least a month, and brought him back to life. She also reads Latin better than I can, and her knowledge of chemistry is _more_ than useful. Stiles has been attacked and paralyzed on multiple occasions, was once kidnapped and beaten by my own father, which I was not part of, for the record, and he’s been studying under Deaton for the past four months. They’re not children anymore, they’re _assets_ , and I’d rather have them on my side than not.”

As Derek chews that over, the kids all start coming back to the room. Stiles very dramatically presents a seat to Lydia, earning her eye roll. Derek sees, for just a split second, her blowing wolfsbane into his face, sees her embracing Jackson, and he knows that she’s not innocent of all of this anymore. And Stiles, well, it’s definitely _something_ that he’s still as much of a pain in the ass when they’ve ended up in near-death situations as often as they have, that he’s resilient enough to keep his personality intact through everything. 

Derek meets Scott’s eyes on accident, but there’s something between annoyance, surprise, and acceptance in them. Not that Derek necessarily cares what Scott thinks of him, but it might be better for everyone if Scott understands that, contrary to popular belief, Derek doesn’t actually _want_ anyone to die. 

Allison comes back into the room, clapping her hands together. “Alright, that’s taken care of. Now. Business. We need to come up with a plan together.”

It takes four hours for them to all come to something they agree on. _Everyone_ has an opinion. Derek’s not used to democracy, doesn’t like how much time it consumes or how much yelling there is, but some of them actually have passable ideas. 

Now that he’s seen the two humans in action, he’ll never doubt Lydia and Stiles again because once they get on the same track, they bounce ideas off of each other in half-sentences that he can only kind of follow until they’ve figured whatever it is they’re figuring out and tell everyone else. It’s a little terrifying, actually. 

At then end, Derek makes it clear that he’s not in love with the plan, even though he thinks it might be a little more thorough than what he would’ve come up with on his own.

 

Stiles calls him the next day. Derek’s not sure how or why or when they have each other’s numbers, but he knows it’s been that way for at least six months, since before they knew Peter killed Laura.

“ _I need you to come over here now, big guy_.” Not much of a _hello_.

“Try that again, this time with a _please_ and a location.”

“ _I need you to come to my house, specifically my room, as soon as possible._ Please.” There’s a snort on the other end. “ _That better, you prima donna_?” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Just because we’re working together doesn’t mean I won’t just kill you later.”

“ _Stop, you’re making me swoon._ ” He’s _not_ going to throw the phone because that's immature and he's better than that. “ _Just get here_.” 

 

Scott’s there, Derek realizes as soon as he gets near the Stilinski house. Not surprising. 

The Sheriff’s not home, so Derek tries the front door. It’s unlocked.

“Why am I here?” he asks as he pushes Stiles’ door open.

“Holy shit!” Stiles says, jumping a little. “I was totally expecting you to come through the window. I didn’t know you understood the concept of _doors_.” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Derek says.

Scott rolls his eyes, saying, “Calm down.”

“I was expecting some sort of mortal peril.”

“Expecting or hoping for?” Stiles asks. “Anyway, _you’re probably wondering why I brought you here today_.”

Derek gives him a look. “Really? You couldn’t get that from _me asking you_?”

“Dear God, let me have a little fun, okay? I’ve always wanted to say that,” Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Scott nods, says, “Okay, but can we get on with it? I have to be at Deaton’s after this.”

“Look, I just thought we should work some stuff out before the eleventh hour. A lot of stupid, painful-for-me shit has gone down because you two don’t know how to talk to each other like normal people. So this time, instead of you two getting in a fight at a critical moment, we’re going to talk it out here.”

This is not what Derek signed up for. Not even close. 

“I’m not staying for this. I have important things to do, Stiles.”

“What, like waxing your chest? Listening to Elliot Smith in a darkened room?” he asks, and Scott snorts. “Come on. Don’t give me that. This is a necessary exercise, okay? I prepared a talking stick and everything.” He pulls out a pencil and holds it up. “Well, _prepared_ is a relative term, but you get the point. We’re going to use some ‘I statements’ and have a heart-to-heart about our werewolfy feelings. Let’s go. Who’s going to be the bigger man and start us off?”

Derek scowls at him, shakes his head when Stiles offers him the pencil. 

“Scott it is, then. You got this, buddy. Remember: _honesty and compassion_.”

Scott takes the pencil, sighs, and looks at Derek. “I hate it when you act like a buttmunch.”

“ _Not_ productive,” Stiles says, “even though it’s kinda true. Let’s try that again.”

“ _Fine_. Derek, I got really pissed off when you act like being a werewolf is the best thing ever one second, then say it’s horribly dangerous for everyone around me. Mixed signals, dude. Also, I had a _life_. I’m supposed to be worrying about my SATs, not a bunch of crazy werewolves. And you never tell me anything until I confront you about it and that sucks. You should have just told me about the Alpha Pack from the start instead of waiting until they threatened Stiles and my mom.”

“ _Better_ ,” Stiles says, “but work on the ‘I statements’. Derek, it’s your turn.” 

Derek plucks the pencil out of Scott’s hand with a little more venom than strictly necessary.

“Did it ever occur to you that I was trying to protect you? After we dealt with Peter the first time, I figured you didn’t want anything to do with any of this, so I tried to leave you out of it. I didn’t think the Alpha Pack would go for you or I would’ve said something. And you didn’t talk to me about your plans either. Case in point: _Gerard_.”

Scott takes the pencil back. “I was only doing what you did to me. If you had known, he wouldn’t have believed it anyway. I was trying to deal with it, since _you_ weren’t able to.”

“I was _trying_ to deal with the Jackson situation. I was responsible for _him_ first.”

“Yeah, because you bit the _last_ person who should’ve gotten the bite. I thought it was pretty clear from what happened with Peter that biting random teenagers doesn’t go well for them.”

“See, this is the problem,” Derek says, throwing his hands up in the air. “You act like the bite was some horrible _burden_ , trying to cure yourself of it, when it only made you stronger.”

“It doesn’t matter because _I never asked for it_!”

“ _Neither did I!_ ” 

The room falls quiet. Derek can hear their hearts beating, his and Scott’s a little faster than Stiles’. Scott’s staring at him and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Stiles looking between them. 

“So. I think we got somewhere with that. I think we can all agree that we’ve had a mutual misunderstanding.” Stiles offers a little bit of an encouraging smile. “Why don’t we agree to keep each other informed from now on?”

“Fine,” Derek says.

Scott nods. “I can do that.”

“Good. Communication. That’s our thing now. We good?”

Scott shrugs, but Derek shakes his head. 

“One thing,” he says. “Are you planning on killing an alpha?” Scott looks at him, not quite surprised, not offended, but recognizing the question for what it is.

“No. I don’t want it. I have too much responsibility already. I couldn’t handle all of that, too.”

“Do you swear?” Derek asks, because what he’s looking at is being alone and he doesn’t know how to do that.

Scott rolls his eyes. “I _swear_.” His heartbeat is steady. 

“Then we’re good,” Derek says. 

 

They put the plan into action a week later on the night of the new moon. 

The Alphas had moved into the Whittemore place less than a week after it had been vacated. The goal there had been intimidation, Derek thinks, or maybe just comfort; it’s been the most expensive house in Beacon Hills since the fire. However, Lydia has a _key_. And even though a locked door is the least of their worries, it’s the symbolism of an easy entry that counts. (Derek tries not to think to hard about it.) It gives them enough confidence to plan on storming the place. It helps, too, that Lydia has apparently been sleeping with one of the twins for reconnaissance, so they have a good idea of when they’ll be there and when they won’t. They’re smarter than leaving the house empty, but there are times when only one alpha will be there at a time. Lydia was able to distract her “special friend” (as she calls him) one afternoon while Stiles laid out a nearly-closed perimeter of mountain ash and some preliminary spell work. 

The general idea is for everyone to go in, then Stiles will trap all of the non-humans inside to have it out. 

If that were all there was to it, they’d probably all be dead in fifteen minutes. 

What improves their chances of survival is Lydia and Stiles. Their job is to stand outside the perimeter behind some sort of cloaking illusion and work their magic. Literally. Derek’s not sure of the particulars because it’s not his job to be, but they’re channeling the moon’s energy to temporarily weaken everyone inside. To even the odds, basically. The only problem is that everyone else _has_ to go in because crossing or breaking the mountain ash line after the spell has been cast would break it. 

The main problem, according to Lydia and Stiles, is that they can’t get close without the Alphas hearing them. They can’t sneak up, so they have to charge. That seems like common sense to Derek, but then, he’s the only one who’s used to knowing people with his level of hearing. When Stiles and Lydia had explained everything, the boy had said, “You know, I always thought your thing for overdramatic entrances was just peacocking, but it kind of makes sense when you think about it.” That’s stupid, of course, because Derek’s really not dramatic. There are times he’s had to be intimidating, but he’s not _dramatic_. Well, not until tonight. 

He’s the one who puts everything in motion. He gets to walk right up to the front door and ring the bell. The idea is that he tells them that he wants to join them. They have, after all, _offered_. He’d also nearly ripped Deucalion’s arm off, so that didn’t really go so well. Now, he’s supposed to _act_ , to more or less grovel to join them for a few minutes while the others approach. 

The truth of the matter is that he’ll be infinitely less desirable at this than Scott would be. Because they’d offered to help Scott kill him to join them. They _want_ Scott. They don’t particularly want Derek. But when they’re inevitably tipped off before anyone else can make it into the house, it’s Derek who has the best chance of survival. Scott may be strong and halfway used to his body now, but he’s no match for five Alphas. They’d tear him apart in under a minute if they caught him lying. Derek might be able to last the five they’ll need, and he’s better at lying. Growing up with parents who can hear your pulse does that.

His knock is more etiquette than anything else. He can already hear the twins coming to the door. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Derek,” Ethan says.

“What can we do for you?” Aiden follows quickly.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I need to talk to Deucalion, _boys_ , so let me in. Or I’ll huff and puff and blow your house down.”

“I’m afraid if anyone’s the Big Bad Wolf, it’s not you,” Aiden says with a patronizing shake of his head.

“Who says Duke wants to see you anyway?” Ethan asks.

From the living room, Derek hears, “Oh, stop toying with him. Let our guest in.” He jerks his eyebrows at them as he pushes his way through them and into the house.

It’s the first time he’s ever been inside, actually. It’s nice. Classy, with a modern touch. Exactly Deucalion’s style.

The Alpha himself is sitting in a square armchair, one leg crossed over the other, examining the glass of red wine in his hand. His lieutenant, Kali, is leaning against his chair, and Ennis is sitting on the matching couch, his bulk dwarfing it. 

“This is a very fine vintage, _mon petit drapeau de pilotage_ ,” Deucalion says, swirling his wine. “Choice. And so much easier to appreciate without the tedious side-effect of inebriation. You don’t seem the type to set aside much time to refine your palate, but you simply _must_ try this. Pour him a glass, _rapidement_ ,” he says the last to Ennis, snapping his fingers. “And do sit. Make yourself comfortable. I pride myself on being a considerate host.” He gestures at a similar armchair and Derek sits, taking the glass Ennis offers him silently. 

The twins come in and flop on the couch, lounging.

“ _Mes deux orphelines_ , please show a little respect. We have _company_ ,” Deucalion says with a small frown. They sit up, pissed off. “There, that’s nice. Now, Derek, tell me what you think of the wine.”

Derek looks at the glass for a second, then takes a small sip. It tastes like _wine_. And faintly of _pretentious douche_.

“Do you taste the sunny, rolling hills of the French countryside? I always say, a fine enough wine can transport you to places you’ve never been. Of course,” he says, smiling sheepishly, “I’ve _been_ to France. But don’t you just want to savor it? Compelling flavor, really. Lightly dry, a touch fruity, with those entrancing notes of oak. _Délectable_.” The way he says it, slowly and delicately licking his mouth, makes Derek uneasy despite the aura of _pompous asshat_ that fills any room Deucalion ends up in.

 _Three minutes._ He only needs to distract them for three minutes more. It’ll be easy since Deucalion is almost as awful about monologuing as he is about French.

“It’s actually quite fortunate that you’ve dropped by, _mon petit drapeau de pilotage,_ ” Deucalion says with a gracious smile. He rises to his feet, refills his glass, coos at the bottle in French. 

Every time he speaks French, Derek wants to shove a baguette so far down his throat that he shits croissants. 

Deucalion circles the room with an idle air. “I’ve found that I quite like our present number. _C’est très efficace_. I was concerned that my recent decision to eliminate a weak link—“ the other four Alphas in the room stiffen, the sharp scent of surprised fear leaking into the air “—would cause that number to shrink, but your arrival could be the very solution I was looking for! That is why you’ve come, isn’t it? I’ve heard _mon pauvre_ _petit drapeau de pilotage_ has been abandoned by those closest to him. That simply won’t do. You’ve far too many useful qualities to become an omega. It would be _such_ a waste of potential. You should fill the gap quite nicely.” The other four Alphas are _terrified_. Derek doesn’t blame them because for all of his ridiculous French, Deucalion’s not the kind of man who fucks around. Derek’s never seen him in a fight, but he’s heard stories. Myths of the Alpha Pack are something like a shared nightmare; the only reason a group of Alphas can hold together in a pack without fighting for dominance is pure _fear_. 

It’s okay, though. Derek only has a minute left. The others’ll be here soon, which means Stiles and Lydia can do their thing and this will all be over.

“Where do I sign up?” Derek asks quickly.

Deucalion smiles like he has a secret, pausing behind each of his Alphas for just long enough for them to flinch. He paces behind the couch, touching each of the three heads with a light, almost paternal hand. Even Ennis shakes. The air in the room is acrid with their terror. 

And then Deucalion stops behind Ethan. Doesn’t look at him. Instead, he studies his wine against the overhead lights. Derek’s watching his face so intently that he nearly misses his other hand slipping down to slice Ethan’s throat open with a single claw. Like a hot knife through butter. Kali and Ennis breathe out small sighs of relief, but Derek hears the choked noise in Aiden’s throat, sees how fear keeps him from reaching or crying out. Ethan gurgles, eyes wide. His hands clench and unclench rapidly, helplessly, against his thighs.

“Someone please ensure the upholstery remains undamaged,” Deucalion says cooly. As Ennis scrambles to take Ethan into the kitchen, Deucalion brings his claw to his lips and licks a drop of blood away as it starts to slide down his finger. His mouth purses as he considers the taste. “I wouldn’t bottle it,” he says with a little shrug and, while Derek fights the urge to roll his eyes, glides back to his chair. Instead of sitting in it, he leans against an arm, arms crossing over his chest, and smiles down at Derek. “Ah, _mon petit drapeau de pilotage_ …you’ll do well with us. Won’t he, _mes copains?_ ” 

“ _Very_ ,” Kali says quickly, but evenly. The way she looks Derek over lets him know exactly what she wants from him. 

“Can’t wait,” Ennis says through his teeth. It’s the first time Derek’s ever heard him speak; his voice is low and rough. Considering his size, Derek wishes Deucalion had killed _him_ instead. 

He should be able to hear the others by now. But he’s not going to worry. He’s fine.

“Of course, I expect you’ll be wiser than your predecessor. He became a little _too_ engrossed in his duty to win over the enigmatic _Mademoiselle Martin_. I don’t appreciate distractibility, you understand. The boy must have masked his scent in some way, but not enough to fool my palate. He’s an odd one, the Sheriff’s son.” _Well, shit_. “Alluring, too, enough to be tempting, but one must consider that _possessing_ the thing is rarely quite so satisfying as _wanting_ it. You’d know something about that, wouldn’t you, Derek?” He hears it all, but his ears quickly zoom in on the familiar sounds of Scott, Isaac, and Boyd’s hearts.

Derek shakes his head, confused, says, “You’ve lost me.”

“Have you never tasted that particular vintage? Tapped the barrel, so to speak?” It’s a disgusting line, it’s so cheesy, but his eyes are bright, playful, and terrifying. And _red_. “Oh my. A sense of restraint like that…you’re a prize, aren’t you?” This is getting very disturbing _very_ fast. “How charitable of you! Of course, nothing ever quite compares to the first sip, does it? It’s always the sweetest.” 

Derek might be throwing up a little. His skin is buzzing, trying to hold his anger in. It’s not even really _Stiles_ , it’s just the principle of the thing.  It’s a level of gross and amoral that won’t be tolerated. 

On accident, but with a strange amount of certainty, he thinks: _I’ll kill him before he ever touches Stiles._ And that’s no good because he can feel his claws digging into his palms, knows his eyes must have gone red, however briefly. That won’t escape notice. _Fuck_.

“Interesting,” Deucalion says after a moment, eyeing him and tapping a blunt finger against his lips. “I was thinking of paying him a visit this evening. I’m sure you’d like to accompany me, considering my generous mood. Who knows what could happen?” 

Derek flinches, trying to stop himself from getting up. It’s purely instinctive: _protect_. It’s all he can think about.

“But I do tend to turn gluttonous in the heat of the moment. You could call it a character flaw. But someone as _edible_ as him, well, you wouldn’t fault me for getting a little carried away, would you?” 

Derek doesn’t even realize he’s moved until his face is inches from Deucalion’s, wrists held tight in his grip. His face feels tight with the partial transformation, but Deucalion is very, very calm. His eyes are a deep blue. 

Deucalion tuts almost apologetically. “Oh, _mon petit drapeau de pilotage_. Of all of their options, why did they send _you_? Hardly any sport at all. Your buttons are so easy to find.” 

Three windows shatter inwards as Scott, Isaac, and Boyd burst in. Derek’s eyes are still locked on Deucalion’s face. He’s _grinning_. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll send your boy to you soon,” Deucalion says. His teeth extend, delicately sharp, and he leans in to bite out Derek’s throat—

Boyd and Ennis fly into them, landing the four of them on the marble floor. Derek scrambles out of Deucalion’s startled grip, but he’s caught in a four-way tussle. They’re all flailing claws and elbows, too close to get at each other until they separate.

When Derek gets free, he heads straight for Isaac, having scented his blood in the air. Aiden is yelling, howling, attacking him with misplaced rage. There’s no form in it, but he’s got enough fire to have ripped up most of Isaac’s chest, shoulders, the side of his head. Isaac’s the best for pain among them. Derek’s got to get him out for the aftermath.

Aiden doesn’t even notice Derek behind him until Derek’s got his claws in his throat. He falls to the floor hard. 

“Run. Go. _Now_ ,” Derek commands, and, thankfully, Isaac does as he’s told. 

A second later, the hunters bust in, guns and crossbows in their hands, but Derek’s throwing himself at Deucalion before he can make eye contact. 

Deucalion’s fast, but cold. He calculates his blows, and he smiles while he fights. It only takes a few seconds for Derek to realize that he’s outmatched. His arms and stomach are raked by deep gashes, one claw mark curving from the middle of his back across his hip. Deep, too. The smell of his own blood is thick and heavy in his nose. Whenever he reaches out, Deucalion dodges like he’s dancing. It’s too much. Derek’s arms are getting heavy, his body resisting his efforts. He resorts to pure defense, entirely giving up hope of getting a blow in.

But that’s when he notices. Deucalion’s slowing. _Fast_. And Derek can see it in his face, his frustration as he realizes it, like he knows his body can do more for longer. 

Derek sinks a little in relief, catching a claw in his shoulder. He needs to get away. Needs to get Deucalion as far from the others as possible. If he can. His body can’t handle any more blows. He’s getting dizzy with blood loss. The noise around him turns into a dull, rushing roar, organic static, and his vision narrows. Things are going black around the edges. _Fuck_. Not good. 

“ _Oh God, this was not supposed to happen_ ,” Derek hears above the background noise. He stumbles, trying to get between Deucalion and the voice. “ _Derek, you need to get out of my way. Right now_.” 

He’s not sure if he’s obeying or if it’s just his legs giving out, but he drops to the floor.

There’s a yell, a hissing noise, and a _scream_. When Derek forces his head up, he sees that Deucalion’s skin is boiling and purple. Standing over him is Stiles, a look of horror on his face. After a second, his eyes fly to Derek and it’s weird, but he thinks he understands now how a face can _fall_. 

Derek’s arms and upper body are heavy, so heavy, so he drops back down to the floor. There’s a weird crackling sound and then he hears: “ _Lydia, lift it now. Do it NOW! They can’t heal!_ ”

 

Everything goes away for a moment or two after that.

 

Then he’s on his back somehow and there’s this weight on his legs. There's a weird, high-pitched sound from far away. Everything’s terribly bright over his body, and he just hears one word over and over: _Heal_. 

 

It’s for a while that he loses consciousness this time.

 

The brightness is gone, leaving a dark negative of the world, and in a strange silence, there’s a voice yelling, _“Stiles?!”_ Derek’s body doesn’t feel like it’s a part of him anymore. There’s only his disembodied head resting on the cold marble. Objects are slowly starting to come out of the darkness.

“ _Dad_?” He hears from above him somewhere. When he looks, really squints, he sees a pale face, blood smeared across one cheek. _Stiles. That’s Stiles,_ he recognizes.

Things get clearer then.

Stiles is above him, sitting on him, sleeves and shirt soaked in blood— _Derek’s blood_ —and Derek can smell fear and guilt on him, heavy and bitter like ammonia. He’s frozen, mouth open wide. 

“What did you do, Stiles? Oh God, what did you _do_?” Derek hears, turning towards the voice. The Sheriff is standing there like the will to live has left him, boneless and drooping. His gun falls from his hand. The clatter it makes against the floor is nearly deafening in the silence. And the thing is, it _is_ silence. There’s no one else in the room. No one alive, at least. All Derek hears is the twin war drums of the two humans’ hearts, the soft flutter of his own.

“Dad. I— I didn’t. He’s hurt. I have to help him. I—“ Stiles’ voice breaks off, and he’s suddenly shaking, starts drawing in these fast, gasping breaths. Derek can smell that sharp ammonia on him, but he doesn’t think he can move. Doesn’t think his body knows how anymore. Until it does.

He’s sitting suddenly. Stiles is falling apart on his lap, and Derek’s trying to hold him together. He’s not sure if his mouth works, but he wills it to.

“ _Breathe_ , Stiles. Slow down. Breathe. Breathe with me, okay? Listen to me breathe.” Derek takes deep, slow breaths, trying to give him a pattern to match. Then he grabs one of Stiles’ hands and puts it on his chest ( _inside_ his chest). “Okay, feel this? Feel me breathing. Listen to me. _Stiles_.”

Derek can see in his face that he’s trying, that his body isn’t cooperating, but he’s trying. His eyes are red and wet. The blood on his cheek has a narrow, pale column in it where a tear washed the blood away. 

“You’re going to be okay. Hear me? _You’re going to be okay._ ”

There’s a scraping noise and a thump; the Sheriff has fallen to the floor.

Stiles’ breathing is slowing down.

The Sheriff is crawling over. 

Everything smells like ammonia.

Stiles coughs. Shudders.

The Sheriff chokes.

Ammonia. 

 _A family is falling apart,_ Derek realizes. That’s what he’s watching. He’s watching their solid ground fall away, watching them fall for the missing step in a dream, tumbling, tumbling into the agonizing shock of being alive and part of the world. 

“I’m sorry. I failed you,” the Sheriff says as he stops a few feet from them. His voice comes out cracked, dry and brittle. _“I failed_.”

Stiles lets out a strangled cry, reaching for him. “ _Dad_. Don’t say that. _Please_. Don’t say that.”

“There’s so much blood. Bodies. I didn’t want to think—“ He clamps down on that, shaking his head. “I should’ve raised you better. This is my fault. You wouldn’t have done this if I’d been a better father.”

“ _Dad_ —“

“No, it’s okay. I’m going to look after you now. You’re going to be okay. I’ll make sure you’re okay. We need to clean up. There’s too much evidence here. I can’t protect you if there’s evidence.” There’s a strange, tense moment where Derek thinks he’s watching some surrealist film. Stiles makes this odd barking sound a few times and Derek realizes that it’s laughter. He’s _laughing_. Next to them, the Sheriff is collapsing, and Stiles is laughing, tears running down his face. 

For the first real time, the Sheriff meets Derek’s eyes. There’s so much panic there. 

Stiles stops laughing suddenly and he reaches out, lunges for his father’s shoulder with a strange _whoop_. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Dad. I promise. It’s not what you think. Everything’s okay.”

His dad shakes his head. “No,” is all he can get out. His breath smells like ammonia. 

“Dad, listen to me, okay? I didn’t kill anyone.” There’s a spike in his pulse, but he’s grinning wide. “I didn’t do this. He’s going to be okay. I was nearby, I heard the noise and came in, okay? I didn’t do this. He’s going to be okay.” 

“ _Stiles_. _Stop_ _lying_.” The Sheriff chokes. “He’s not going to be _okay_ , son.” Derek suddenly realizes that they’re talking about _him_. He leans back, looks down at himself. 

 _Jesus_. 

He looks back up at Stiles for _something_ , but Stiles looks a little afraid, which means he's _terrified_. Shit. Derek’s going to die. It’s actually going to happen.

“I should’ve known you’d be there when I died,” he says roughly, elbows giving out; his body falls back against the tile, and he feels the impact but no pain. Nothing hurts, actually, which he should have realized sooner. Because that's a _bad_ sign. It's never been this bad before. 

It’s getting dark again, the second rush of adrenaline seeping out of his body. 

“Derek, I’m going to help you, okay? You’ll be fine. I promise.” Stiles’ heart speeds up.

“ _Liar_.”

There are hands on his shoulders, the side of his head, cradling him. Everything is so far away, like he’s back in the womb. The only thing he can get a hold on is the smell of ammonia.

“ _Derek, son, you’re going to be okay. Just rest now. You’ll be fine_.” The voice is comforting, low. It sounds familiar. Parental. He _knows_ this voice.

It’s been so long since he’s heard his dad’s voice, it takes him a while to place it.

“ _I missed you, Dad_ ,” he says, and then he’s out.


	2. No one wants to hear that they were not enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a case, a creature, and the Jungle.
> 
> Also, this is the time to let you know that Derek jerks off a lot in this story. But it's meaningful. I swear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Barcelona's "Slowly"
> 
> Trigger warnings at the end

Derek wakes up in a cold, bright place. Smells animals, sterilizer, Deaton — the vet clinic. His body feels diced, like someone shrank him down and put him in a Magic Bullet for a few pulses.

“You’re finally with us, I see,” Deaton says. His face, smiling, appears overhead against too much light. “Good. I’m sure you feel terrible. Don’t move. You had some internal injuries that are probably still healing. Stiles was only able to seal up the outer wounds, which was quite a feat, in itself. The rest is up to your body. Isaac and Scott will be here soon to help with the pain.”

“Th—thanks,” Derek manages. 

“When you’re ready, the Sheriff has asked to speak with you. When you’re ready.” 

He sinks back into the hard table, unbearably exhausted. 

 

He wakes again because of the strange absence of pain. When his eyes open, Scott and Isaac are leaning over him on either side. Isaac’s very focused, eyes shut, but Scott glances at him and smiles, just a little. It’s a small thing, but comforting. 

Without the pain, he can feel his body healing. The cells are regenerating, are growing back together. He’d been told not to do it when he was little, not unless it was his absolute last resort, but he _focuses_ on the itch of healing, wills it to speed up. The focus sinks him into his body, somewhere deep and dark and wholly internal. He’s somewhere inside of himself, urging torn muscle and tissue to reknit cell by cell. It burns, aches, and itches in a good sort of way, almost addicting.

It’s unclear how long he’s in that nowhere place of too much awareness his body, but suddenly there’s yelling. Someone’s shaking his shoulders. 

Derek’s eyes fly open, and he launches himself into a sitting position. “ _What’s wrong? Who’s in trouble?_ ” he asks, panting. 

Scott, Isaac, Deaton, and Stiles are all staring at him, stunned. 

"Your heartbeat stopped," Scott says.

Deaton is the first to move towards him, and he touches Derek’s ribs. “Are you feeling any pain, Derek?”

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, hopping off of the table instinctively; he needs to _move_ something. It takes a second for the world to lock into place when his feet hit the floor. He doesn’t wobble, just stands very still.

“Dude, I don’t think you should be moving around yet,” Scott says. “I’m pretty sure you just healed most of your vital organs, so maybe you should sit down.”

“I’m _fine_. How long have I been out?”

“Four days,” Isaac answers.

God _damn_. 

“Seriously, Derek? You need to sit down,” Stiles says, holding out his hands in front of his body. “We’ll get you food and water, but last time you were conscious, I could see your spleen, okay? You should _never_ have to see another person’s spleen. Your insides aren’t supposed to be on your outsides. Just saying.”

Derek sits.

Stiles’ hand smacks against his own chest. “Thank God. You just gave me a heart attack. No pun intended."

Derek ignores him. “Is everyone okay? Where’s Boyd? Did we kill them all?”

“Boyd’s fine,” Scott tells him. “We’re _all_ fine. The Alphas are all dead.” He looks a little shifty. Uncomfortable.

“Who killed the Alphas?” If Scott’s an Alpha, that’s _not_ okay. They had an _agreement_. But then, another person, especially Scott, betraying his trust? Not exactly new. 

“One of the twins was dead when we got there. You killed the other. Allison killed Kali. Chris killed Ennis. Stiles killed Deucalion. _I_ made sure not to kill any of them, like we agreed beforehand.” 

Well, that’s good. Now Derek’s thinking about that night, trying to remember everything. When he starts getting pieces, he automatically looks up at Stiles, since he’s the last thing Derek remembers. Him, the Sheriff, and a scent-memory hanging in his nose: ammonia.

“We’d just finished killing everyone when they heard the sirens,” Stiles says, then looks away.

“He made everyone leave,” Scott picks up. “It wouldn’t have looked good for anyone. But you were too hurt for us to move you without patching you up first, so Stiles stayed behind.”

“And then my dad came in, and, well, you know. It wasn’t pretty.” Stiles bites his lip. “After you passed out again, I patched you up enough to carry you out. We got you here, and then Scott had to help me tell my dad about everyone’s furry little problem because he was kind of freaked out about how you were holding your guts in one minute and then pink and shiny the next. So that was fun. He, uh, wants to talk to you, too.”

“I know. Deaton said,” Derek says. “I’m ready. Or I will be. Did I hear ‘food’ a minute ago?”

“I’ll get you something,” Deaton says, disappearing. 

Derek twists and stretches, testing out his torso gently. It feels like everything’s healed. No tension in his muscles anywhere. The gouges in his arms are gone, he notices, flexing to make sure everything’s healed right. And his chest and stomach seem solid. Like he can’t put his hands in there. Everything feels just about normal.

“Holy _God_ , can you _not_?” Stiles says suddenly. Derek stops, frowning at him, while Scott and Isaac pretend they aren’t laughing. “Jesus, someone get the man a goddamn shirt! My fragile body image _can_ not handle this bullshit.” 

Derek looks down at himself, amused, and Stiles follows his gaze.

“And _pants_. Mother of _God_ ,” Stiles moans, covering his face. “What is _wrong_ with you people? I may have joined your super secret werewolf boy band, but I did _not_ sign up for a nudist bodybuilding club. This is ridiculous. _You_ ’re ridiculous.” Scott and Isaac have stopped pretending anything; Scott’s face is red and he’s clutching the edge of the table for support, and Isaac’s musical laugh is fading away a little as he leaves, presumably, to find Derek clothes.

“If you have a problem, take it up with whoever undressed me. _I don’t know if you’ve heard_ , but I’ve been unconscious for four days. I didn’t exactly take my _own_ clothes off.” He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying how much Stiles is upset right now. He’s gone kind of splotchy and red.

“What did I just walk into?” Derek hears from behind him. He snaps around, locking in on the Sheriff. He doesn’t seem to be angry, and he doesn’t smell like he’s carrying wolfsbane, but Derek’s senses might not be quite up to par yet.

“Oh my _God_ , how could this get _worse_ ,” Stiles mutters to himself from behind his hands, then, louder, “Dad, save me. _Please_. Take me away. Somewhere with people who wear clothes.” Scott laughs harder, beyond language at this point. If he were part of Derek’s pack, he would’ve cuffed him upside the head.

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” the Sheriff says after a beat. 

Derek swings down to the floor, his vision staying steady. “I’m not actually naked, anyway. No one took my underwear off, in case you didn’t notice,” he says to no one in particular. Stiles chokes. 

“ _Why would you say something like that? Those are mental images I can never un-see_ ,” Stiles hisses, almost falling over.

“Wow, and _that’s_ way too much information,” the Sheriff tells his son. “Why don’t you go into the other room before you get a nosebleed or something?” Derek smirks at how Stiles nearly runs from the room. Scott actually _does_ fall over. Isaac comes in a second later with a shirt and sweat pants, face split in half with a shit-eating grin.

“You— you missed it!” Scott wheezes at him. 

Isaac grins, shaking his head, “I heard all I needed to.”

“Okay, juvenile delinquents, show’s over. Go make sure Stiles doesn’t hemorrhage or something,” the Sheriff says with authority, shooing them away with his hands. The two boys, laughing in aftershocks, leave just as Deaton comes in with a steaming microwaved pot pie. It’s possibly the most delicious thing Derek’s ever smelled. 

Deaton holds it away from him, shaking his head. “Pants first. You’re talking to an elected county official. Consider a touch of decorum.” Deaton gives the Sheriff a small smile, sets the pot pie down, and disappears. Derek pulls on the pants quickly, then gives the Sheriff an expectant look as he grabs the shirt.

“Do you know how long I’ve been a Sheriff?” he asks. Derek pauses in the middle of pulling the shirt over his shoulders, head peeking out, then susses that it’s a rhetorical question and finishes. “ _Thirteen years_. I’ve being doing this job for thirteen years. The only things I’ve ever done for longer are been married and been a father. And I was a deputy before that, even.” The Sheriff crosses his arms over his chest as Derek sits back on the table with the pot pie in his hands. “It’s not the kind of job you take for decent pay and good hours. The benefits are crap, let me tell you. I mean, I thank God every day that Stiles didn’t need braces.” Derek smirks around his fork at the mental image of a younger, weedier Stiles with a metallic grin.

“What I’m trying to say here is that I take my job very seriously. I believe in maintaining law and order and justice, in _protecting_ people. That’s why I keep doing it, because I think it’s the second most important thing in life, next to family.” _Well, this is probably going to end in a threat of grievous bodily harm_ , Derek thinks. “I’ve talked to some people the past few days. My _son_ , for the first time in at least six months. Scott. Dr. Deaton. Isaac Lahey. Melissa McCall. Chris Argent.” _Fuck_. “And I believe I’ve come to a conclusion or two about your character.”

“I’m not going to like where this is going, am I?” Derek asks. 

The Sheriff smiles with half of his mouth, shaking his head a little. “That entirely depends,” he says, “on how you can take a compliment.”

Derek freezes, fork halfway to his lips. _What_?

“I remember you. When you were sixteen and too much in shock to grieve. You carried the world on your shoulders then, and you still do now. Have you always made the best decisions? _No_ , not by a long shot, but a lot of kids your age haven’t even decided on a _major_ , let alone had to look after anyone or risk their lives for anything. As a sheriff, I want you to know that I appreciate what you’ve done, and if I wouldn’t have to explain our local werewolf population to do it, I’d give you a medal or something. Since I can’t, I’d like to put something on the table for you to consider: a job. You were there the night I lost most of my deputies, and I haven’t quite replaced them all yet, but I think you’re up to it. If you’d like a job, you need only ask.”

“Well. Thank you. _Sir_ ,” Derek says, reeling a little. This has gone _way_ better than he’d expected. Which means something terrible is probably going to happen.

“I’m not done,” the Sheriff says, holding up a hand. “Now, I’m done talking to you as the law, but you should know that I take my duties as a father _very_ seriously. If my son were in danger, I would not hesitate for even a _fraction_ of a second to kill for him or to die for him. He’s the only thing I have left.” He shrugs, and the look on his face says he knows that Derek has a clear idea of what it is to only have one person left in the world. “So I’d like to thank you. Because from what I hear, you’ve saved me the trouble a couple of times.”

Derek frowns a little, saying carefully, “It’s nothing he hasn’t done for me.”

“Oh, I’m aware of _that_. I was the victim of a heavily-commentaried reenactment of whatever idiocy that was at the pool in March, and I’ve heard about the _utterly horrible psychological trauma_ that you almost caused in this very room by placing a bone saw in my son’s hands. _Believe me_ , I’ve heard all about your little adventures, and while there are certain things I wish had played out a little differently, I know that neither Stiles nor I would be alive today if it weren’t for you. For that, well, if you ever want a home-cooked meal sometime, you should come over for dinner.” Derek’s trying to wrap his head around the fact that what he’d assumed would be a round of very thorough threats is actually a friendly gesture? _How?_  

“Thank you,” he says after a long moment.

“Not a problem, son. As long as you go about keeping my son alive, as far as I’m concerned, you and I are on good terms.” He gives the kind of nod that, if he were wearing one, would be a tip of the hat. “Now I’ll let you rest. If you want to take me up on either offer, you know where to find me.” He leaves Derek to consider everything over the second half of his pot pie. From the other room, he hears the Sheriff say, “ _Where did those two buffoons get off to?_ ”

 _“Deaton had them run to the store because they were eavesdropping. You didn’t kill him, though, right? If I go in there, I won’t be scarred for life?_ ” 

“ _Jesus Christ. No. Don’t be home after curfew, or I’ll extend your grounding._ ” The front door opens and as he leaves, Stiles races into the room.

“Holy shit. I wasn’t convinced you’d still be _breathing_ ,” he says, letting out a little sigh of relief, then his eyes go wide. “Oh my God, you have to tell me what he said. Tell me _everything_.”

Derek takes a slow bite of pot pie, chewing lazily because he knows that stalling will piss Stiles off. The anticipation is clearly killing him, and Derek enjoys that maybe a little too much.

At last he swallows and asks, “What _exactly_ did you say to him while I was out?”

“Oh Jesus fuck, it was bad, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, I just told the truth, but I kept getting pissed off because you do stupid things all the time, and I may not have pleaded your case as well as I’d intended. Actually, you probably have Scott to thank for you being here because he totally defended you when I got carried away. Which was weird, but it was _necessary_. Trust me. What did he say, though? Did he tell you about his shotgun? Did he give you the _I know how make it look like an accident_ speech? Or was it worse? Oh God, it was, wasn’t it?”

Derek shrugs, face carefully blank.

Stiles pales. “That bad? What did he _say_?”

“Well,” Derek says, purposefully scooping gravy and crust onto his fork, “he offered me a job and invited me to dinner.”

Stiles gapes like a dying fish, eyes narrow. 

“There was also talk of a medal,” Derek says gravely. Stiles sighs heavily in relief.

“Oh, thank God. You’re _joking_. I can’t tell when your face doesn’t move.”

Derek shakes his head. “Nope. Not a joke. You better start getting used to calling me ‘Deputy Hale’.” 

It’s not until he says it that he realizes that he’s actually going to take the Sheriff up on the offer. It would be good to do, to be honest. He has too much time on his hands anyway, and he’s tired of hanging around his apartment and the high school. As long as he has most of his afternoons and nights free, it should be fine. It’ll also help his reputation around town if he gets a job. When he went grocery shopping last week, a couple of women in the dairy aisle started whispering about him. (He’s neither an eligible bachelor nor murderous recluse, _thank you very much_.) It would do him good to be seen around in a uniform. That kind of thing garners respect. People would be more willing to talk to him, when he needs information out of them for some reason, if they’re used to seeing him around as an extension of the Sheriff’s department.

“I don’t even know who I hate more right now: you or my dad. This is _ridiculous_. You can’t become a deputy. That’s just not allowed.”

“Sucks for you,” Derek tells him, hopping off the table. He sets down his empty pot pie plate and looks around for shoes. Finds some, not his own, but they’ll do, so he slips them on. Stiles is making faces in a frustrated silence when he leaves. 

“They wear _uniforms_ , Derek!” he shouts at Derek’s retreating back. “You can’t do that! My _dad_ wears that uniform! _How am I supposed to look him in the eye,_ _huh_?” 

Derek doesn’t actually know what he’s talking about, but he yells, “ _That sounds like a personal problem!_ ” over his shoulder as he leaves. 

And then comes back. 

Because his car isn’t here. Goddamnit. 

“Take me to my car,” Derek orders. Of course this is his life. _Of course_. 

“Or what? Before you answer, consider if you could be arrested for doing it.” 

Well, if he’s going to play that way. Might as well go with something he'd be too embarrassed to admit to.

“Stiles,” he says, a dark smile stretching across his face, “take me to my car or I’ll start stripping. And I won’t stop.”

“That’s—“ Stiles frowns at him, squinting. “Did you just use stripping as a _threat_? Is that what just happened? I don’t think that’s how it works.” Derek looks at him for a second, sighs, and pulls his shirt over his head. “ _Oh my God_ , _put your clothes back on what are you doing_.”

“Take. Me. To. My. Car,” he enunciates as he unties the drawstring of his pants.

“For the love of all that is holy, _yes_ , just keep your goddamn pants on. I’ll drive you to freaking _Canada_ if you promise to stay fully clothed at all times.” Stiles looks like he’s having about forty percent of an existential crisis. It gives Derek a personal joy.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” he asks with a smirk.

Stiles makes a weird dying type of noise. “If I had known that coming within inches of death would make you so, so— _whatever this is_ , I would have let you die. I swear to God. You are actually _worse_ now.”

“What can I say? I’m in a good mood,” Derek says, realizing it to be true as he says it. The Alphas are no longer his problem, he’s alive, there’s at least _half_ a chance Scott might open up to some sort of pack negotiation, and he hasn’t been arrested. Frankly, this is the best he’s been all year.

“Well, _stop it_ ,” Stiles says, leading the way to his Jeep. “I want the old you back. The you who does weird model poses in the shadows and writes sad poems in his diary and shows up in creepy places just to freak everyone out. I _missed_ that you.” Derek hears his jaw click shut as he realizes what he’s said. “You know in a weird sort of Stockholm Syndrome way. I’ve adapted to saving your ass and getting yelled at for it, you know. So let’s go back to the yelling instead of the stripping because that’s a level of surrealism that my life _so_ does not need right now. It’s _at least_ four cuils from reality.”

Derek smirks, swinging into the passenger seat, then monotones, “ _You ask me for a hamburger. I take off my shirt. You disapprove._ ”

Stiles’ mouth is hanging open again, and after a moment, he shakes his head angrily, jamming his key into the ignition. “Screw this. I am taking you back to your manufacturer and trading you in. This personality module is too weird.” 

There’s a joke he could make about the three laws of robotics, but he holds it back. Maybe another time. Don’t want his head to explode. Yet.

 

Derek’s empty apartment feels welcoming, more so than usual. Isaac and Boyd have been here in the past day or so; he’s taught them that pack scents are comforting. The main room smells like them, with a tinge of worry, but it’s an overall calming effect. It’s how he imagines looking through a photo album would feel, maybe. After-images of people. 

( _Sometimes he thinks about the portrait album his Grandma Jean kept, the one that was lost in the fire, full of the only likenesses of his family’s faces they’d ever managed._

_Sometimes he thinks about how their faces are fading to blurs now that he doesn’t have a references._

_The faces went first, then their voices, and after a while, he knows, his memory of their scents will be gone too._ )

After lounging for a moment or two, taking the pack feeling in, Derek stalks to the fridge and chugs half a carton of orange juice. 

It’s early in the night, but if it’s been four days since he was last conscious, then it’s a school night. Isaac is probably studying with Scott, like he usually does these days, since they did summer school together. He’ll be crashed on the futon in the morning, though. Boyd is probably stuck at his own house without a ride. Which means Derek’s got at least a couple of hours of alone time. Not always something he loves, but he’s thankful for it after his body’s ordeal.

He ends up pulling off the borrowed clothes and sprawling across his bed. Healing took more effort than he’s comfortable thinking about, but he’s got just enough energy to jerk off as long as he doesn’t take too long. It’s been almost two weeks since the last time, which is too long. He won’t be able to sleep tonight if he doesn’t, and he needs rest. 

Sighing, he slides his right hand down across his stomach, slowly. The other slips behind his head. He can hear his downstairs neighbors sitting down to eat dinner and a car on the street and a cat in one of the trash bins outside, but he blocks it out, focusing on the basic feeling of being in his body. It’s a meditative place he has to find. His extraneous senses have to be shut down: sight, sound, taste. Everything else sharpens in relief.

His skin takes in any and all sensation it can, hair prickling. His fingers trail lightly below his belly button. The muscles of his stomach jump and quiver at the contact, and he can feel himself starting to fill with blood. 

Usually, he does this naked. There’s a certain ritual to it, like working out or going for a run, and part of that is the easy hedonism of stretching out, nude, on a comfortable surface. But he’s left his boxer briefs on, out of exhausted forgetfulness, and he’s not especially motivated to kick them off. But there’s something surprisingly arousing about the feel of soft cotton on his skin. He runs his fingers gently over the length of his dick, humming contentedly at the sensation. He’ll probably get off faster like this, the difference in texture allowing him some measure of surprise. Maybe he’ll have to do it like this more often, change things up a little. It’s been boring lately, more of a chore than usual.

Derek doesn’t fantasize.

He hasn’t been able to conjure up a single arousing image that doesn’t make him sick since he was sixteen. Objectively, he understands attraction, but feeling it makes him nauseous, so he tends to push it away. It’s a weakness, anyway. It’s how people make you do what they want. That’s all. But he still has physical needs, probably as punishment, and if he doesn’t satisfy them, he has dreams—and that’s the kindest way to describe them—where he’s choking on smoke, watching his house burn down as _she_ rides him or takes him in her mouth. If he doesn’t wake up in time, he ends up with sticky sheets, vomiting over the side of his bed.

The most he can last is eleven days, so he settles in for a ritual jerk off every eight or nine. For safety.

Sometimes, he looks down at himself, at how the darkened head of his cock disappears in his fist, to keep himself in the moment. In the exact feeling of how much pressure he’s using, the involuntary tightening and relaxing of his thigh muscles, the rhythm of his breath. 

Maybe it’s because of the underwear he hasn’t bothered to take off yet, but it’s harder to stay in reality this time. His mind keeps leaving his immediate body, which is bizarre and terrifying, but the place he goes doesn’t feel dangerous. It’s just a nondescript room, and the feel of it is safe. He’s standing in the middle of this room in his underwear, slowly stroking himself through the fabric, just as he is now. This much is alright. It’s still him, it’s just another place, and that’s fine. It’s not dangerous, framed by golden curls and twisted lips.

By all rights, there’s nothing particularly exciting about being the room anyway. It just means his body is in a slightly different position. Though his body isn’t arousing to him in any way (even though he understands that it can be to others and he knows how to use that to his advantage) so that’s not what’s getting him turned on. No, it’s something about the room. There’s a presence in it, not concretely a person, or he would stop, but he feels _seen_. There’s no intent behind the gaze. There’s no threat of any sort of contact. It’s fine like this. The other presence is passive, nothing more than an aura of voyeurism, and something about that makes Derek want to show off a little, not to please anyone else, but because it makes him feel powerful. There’s a specific sort of dependence it has on him that makes his body hum.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs, slides them down just below his balls. Licks his palm slowly, deliberately. Gets it shiny and wet. His pulse is a steady thrum radiating from his dick. Biting his lip, he wraps his hand around the base, tugging up slowly with just the right grip. His nostrils flare, scenting a drop of precome. 

He’s never been this turned on this fast, not since there was someone else ( _her_ ) in the equation. It’s heady, knowing that even though what he’s doing is arousing to the other presence, he’s doing it because _he_ wants to, that this gives him control over someone. He _likes_ being watched like this. It makes his hand speed up a little on its own, tightening slightly, enough to make him groan just a little. It feels _good_. That’s terrifying and thrilling at once. And the other, it can’t and won’t touch him. This, his pleasure, belongs to him alone. 

Grunting softly, he moves his hand faster, looks down at the rapid rising and falling of his chest, the shiny head of his dick. Runs his thumb over it, lets himself moan a little as he spreads the sticky-slickness around. He can’t ( _won’t_ ) even remember the last time it felt this good. 

He _wants_ to get off. Not as a means to an end, but because it’ll feel _great_.

His pace ratchets up, wrist slapping against his groin, and the sound should be embarrassing, but he’s too far gone to think about it. All he can think about is that he’s going to come and no one can do a thing about it except for him. It makes him dizzy because it’s power. Power that actually belongs to him, that comes from him. Fuck, and it’s _amazing_ , makes his body buzz hot and his muscles sing and he’s drawing himself into it, tightening into it, and _fuck_.

He comes in long pulses on his stomach, groaning and stroking himself through it. His body sinks into the mattress when he’s done, melts into it. 

After a minute or two to catch his breath, he looks down at the streaks of come on his belly. A moment of movement, and he gets his underwear off and wipes himself clean, tosses them blindly at his laundry pile. With a contented sigh, he rolls over and falls asleep.

 

The next morning, after going for his run, making breakfast, and dragging Isaac out of bed and into the shower and to school, Derek heads to the Sheriff station. For a split second, he expects the pretty deputy he’d once charmed ages ago, but then he remembers that she’s dead. Like too many people. 

There’s a beanpole of a kid behind the desk. His uniform shirt hangs loosely from his narrow shoulders like it’s on a hanger. Distantly, he hears the scratch of pen on paper, the sound of the Sheriff’s lungs and heart.

“How can I help you, sir?” the kid asks. His voice cracks.

“I have business with Stilinski,” Derek tells him, jamming his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Oh, okay.” The kid presses the intercom button. “Sheriff Stilinski, sir? There’s someone here to see you.”

The reply is immediate and crackly. “ _What’s their name, Fisher?_ ” 

Derek tells the kid his name.

“It’s Derek Hale?” Fisher says into the intercom, eyebrows stretching towards his hairline. 

“ _Get in here, Derek!_ ” the Sheriff yells from his office, nixing the intercom. 

“Uh, go ahead,” Fisher says belatedly, still shell-shocked, as Derek heads in the right direction. 

The Sheriff is leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk when Derek comes in. He unlaces his hands from behind his head, gesturing at the chairs across from his desk. 

“Last time I was in here, I couldn’t move anything below my neck,” Derek says ruefully as he sits. 

The Sheriff smiles. “I’ve heard you were _plenty_ threatening anyway.” That’s kind, at least, since Derek remembers feeling so disgustingly helpless that it might have paralyzed him if he hadn’t been already.

“I did the best I could with what I had.”

“Innovation,” the Sheriff says, “is a valuable quality to have in this line of work.” He gives Derek a meaningful look.

“I’d like to take you up on that offer,” he says, even though they both know that’s why he’s here.

“Good, because I’ve already set aside a uniform and locker for you.”

Derek nods once, says, “Then I guess we’re settled.”

“I’d say so, _Deputy Hale_.” The Sheriff grins. “The lockers are down the hall. Yours has your name on it.” Derek gets up, has his hand on the doorknob when the Sheriff says, “Wait. Can I ask you something? Don’t read into to it or anything.”

“Shoot.”

The Sheriff frowns, looking at a picture frame on his desk that Derek can’t see, but he can guess who’s in it. “If Stiles were to…if he ever asks you for the bite, or whatever it is you call it, would you do it?”

“If he _did_ —“ Derek shuts off, chewing it over, remembering the advice Peter had given before he’d fled about who he (according to Peter, at least) _should_ have bitten in the first place, instead of Jackson. “Stiles would take to it well, and not just because he’s helped Scott through it. I’m not going to say that I didn’t, at one point, consider making an offer.”

“But you _didn’t_.” 

“No. And I had my reasons.” Derek thinks about it, takes a breath, and explains better. “It wasn’t necessary. Most packs have a ratio of one human to every four werewolves.” Usually, they’re spouses, but not always, and that doesn’t matter anyway. “It’s good to have someone around who can keep a level head at moonrise. And with everything that’s gone on, it’s useful that he can handle wolfsbane and mountain ash.”

“So Stiles is your human?” The Sheriff seems content that that’s a good summary, which it _isn’t_. Not even close. Even though, just a little bit, it is.

Derek shakes his head quickly. “Stiles has never been a part of my pack.”

 _That_ ’s apparently perplexing for some reason. “Okay, then run all of this by me again. Because I thought you leave people human if they’re in your pack? And if he’s not _in your pack_ , then why leave him human?”

There’s no real answer for that. There are a couple possibilities that seem true, but he doesn’t like any of them. He makes the mistake of looking at the Sheriff’s face, and all he sees is concern for his son. Which makes sense. Derek’s pack is protection. The bite is protection. And, according to what Derek’s saying, Stiles has neither. That places him in a delicate, dangerous place. One that he’s not quite in. But there’s more to it than the simple aspect of protection.

What comes out is too honest.

“Stiles would probably die if I bit him. The odds for survival are about two out of three, and the only real rejection we’ve had was because of mountain ash. Frankly, Stiles doesn’t have good enough luck to make it. And if he did, he’d instinctively be in my pack, and if he wanted out, he'd have to fight himself for it. He knows that, and that’s probably why he’s never asked. And he’s not _our_ human because his loyalty is to Scott. It will always be to Scott. He’s saved my life when it’s been convenient for him, or for Scott, and we both understand that that’s all it is.”

“But you don’t save _him_ when it’s convenient for Scott. Or for _you_ , from what I’ve gathered.”

Derek shrugs. What’s he supposed to say? _I’ve never meant to save your son’s life, it just keeps happening_? Because that’s how it is. It’s always accidental. Stiles is always in the way of something that could kill him, always smelling like he has some sort of goodness in him, and Derek is terrified of being the reason someone good dies again. So no, it’s not convenient, not obviously, but it is _necessary_. 

“You’ll protect him, won’t you.”

“Yes,” Derek says, because it’s true. It’s what he does. He’s tried to protect Stiles from the things trying to kill him, from having to lose his father, from the creatures of the night they run around with. It’s not Stiles in particular, though. That’s important. Derek’s just not used to having a human to worry about. He must have forgotten how strong the urge to _protect_ is around them. It's all just instinct.

 

It takes a couple of weeks to settle into the swing of things at the station, to learn everyone’s names, to get comfortable in the job. 

Isaac and Boyd tease him about it when they’re over. Scott, too, because he tags along sometimes, which is _bizarre_. The three of them had been sitting around the coffee table in the living room, doing homework, when Derek had gotten home a few times until _some_ became _often_. It’s weird, actually, but having Scott around is comforting. Probably because Derek’s always considered him pack.

Trying not to think too hard about it, Derek gets a bottle of water from the fridge when Scott breaks the near silence of pencil scratches and confusion.

“Hey, Derek, you don’t happen to be good at trigonometry, do you?”

Derek shakes his head. “Sorry. More of an English person.”

“Fuck it,” Isaac says, throwing down his pencil. “I’m going to fail. I’ve accepted my fate. This is stupid. _Math_ is stupid.”

“Tell me about it,” Boyd says. 

Derek leans his elbows on the counter, looking at the three of them and their aura of accepted defeat. “Who of you has the best grade in the class right now?” he asks.

“Well, after the quiz Monday, I should have a solid seventy,” Isaac says, a small, proud smile on his face. Boyd rolls his eyes and Scott scowls. Like they’re _jealous_.

“I hate you. That’s so not fair,” Scott tells him.

“You’re all idiots,” Derek declares. They’re displaying a mix of acceptance and offense. “ _Yeah_. You heard me. Not one of you even has a _B_ and you thought it was a good idea to study together? Come on. First rule of passing high school: always study with someone _at least_ a letter grade smarter than you.” 

“I was doing that,” Scott says with a groan, “because Allison is _totally_ smart, but then I started failing again and my mom wouldn’t let me study with her any more.”

Derek rolls his eyes, says, “If you’d actually done any _studying_ , maybe you wouldn’t be failing.” Then he thinks about it. “Look, invite her over here to help you all out. I’ll chaperone.”

“Yeah, but Allison’s studying with Lydia, Stiles, and Danny.” 

“ _And_?”

The three look between each other, all with something to say but none of them seem to want to be the one to do it.

“Look,” Isaac says at last, “they’re cool and all, but Danny’s human and he doesn’t know about any of us. It would just be awkward.” The other two seem to completely agree on that point, like it’s obvious. Clearly, they have a problem here.

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know what? I’m going to go get some hot wings. Brain fuel. I’ll be back soon.”

He grabs his keys, leaves, knowing what he’s going to have to do. And he's not going to like it.

 

The drive-thru line for Buffalo Wild Wings is long enough for him to make the call.

The other end rings four times, and he’s about to yell something rude at the phone when it’s finally answered.

“ _Can you tell whoever’s dying to stop_?” Stiles asks, voice hushed. “ _Because I can’t really get away right now. Kind of in the middle of an urgent cram sesh._ ” 

“I would, except the only thing dying is Scott’s grade in math, so I don’t see that plan working out too well.”

There’s an angry huff on the other end. “ _Okay, first, I seriously thought there was mortal peril going on so don’t call me if there’s not, and second, I’m in the middle of saving my own grade right now. If I don’t get an A on this test, my dad won’t give me my keys back. Because, you know, I’m grounded. For saving your furry ass_. _Also, I broke curfew driving behind you on your way home because you were totally going to pass out and die in a ditch somewhere._ ” Derek’s not even going to think about that.

“Bring everyone else to my place. I’m getting wings.”

“ _Don’t tempt me with fast food. That’s cruel_.” There’s a crackly sigh. “ _Look, Danny’s here right now so it’s not a good time._ ”

Derek tries very hard not to roll his window down and throw his phone into the parking lot. “ _I’m not a kindergarten teacher_ , Stiles! It’s not my job to teach the pack how to play nicely in the sandbox with the humans. Bring him over and just don’t talk about the full moon! It’s not that hard. You have a test to study for anyway. Remember: _wings_.”

“ _Fine, but if this turns out to be a disaster, I’m blaming you_.” Stiles hangs up, and Derek rolls his eyes.

Two minutes later, he receives a text: **Pick up some salad on your way back.**

Derek snorts, turns off his phone. 

But fifteen minutes later, he’s in the checkout line at the grocery store with a couple of bags of salad and two liter bottles of soda. He’d been planning on getting the soda anyway. Might as well have a healthy option. 

 

He makes it back to his loft before the four humans. The boys in his living room perk up at the smell of the chicken, but he gives them all a sharp look and starts getting out plates and glasses. 

( _It makes him ache, a little, looking at the glasses._

 _Erica had left Ikea catalogs all over the rail station with items she thought were necessary circled in red sharpie. And then she’d been killed. But he’d ended up buying most of what she’d suggested._ ) 

When he hears the other teenagers get to the door, he yells, “ _Door’s open!_ ” and finishes tossing the dressing into a bag of salad. 

“Nice digs. Very heroin chic,” Lydia says, looking around as she comes in. 

Stiles pushes past her, saying, “Sorry we took so long, I stopped at the— Oh. So did you. Okay. Well, this’ll be good brain food later. I’m putting it in your bison-sized fridge.” There’s a vegetable platter in his hands, one of the bigger ones with four kinds of dip and two tiers of plant matter. 

In the living room, Allison goes over to Scott and kisses him on the cheek. Danny shuts the front door behind him a second later. He looks around, nodding, then his eyes settle on Derek. 

“ _Oh_. Duh!” He smacks himself on the forehead. “Well, _that_ makes the past twenty minutes of sketchiness make at _least_ ten times more sense.” 

Stiles looks between him and Derek, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, uh, my bad. I suppose I should properly introduce—“

“Derek Hale,” Danny says, nodding like it’s stupid that he wouldn’t know. “Yeah. Or should I say—“ he winks dramatically “— _Miguel_.”

“Wait, you _know_?” Stiles asks.

Danny rolls his eyes. “Dude. There were Wanted posters of his face all over town. I’m not an idiot. And hey, if you wanted to call the bloody fugitive in your bedroom your ‘Cousin Miguel’ who was I to stop you? I kind of figured you were rebelling against your dad by hiding a wanted man, but _this_ scenario makes so much sense. I can’t believe I didn’t realize.” Everyone’s stopped and they’re staring at Danny because he’s the only one who thinks that any sense is being made. And Derek vaguely remembers a few uncomfortable wardrobe changes that earned them the IP address they needed, but he’s still confused. 

“Okay, I’m going to say it: what are you talking about?” Lydia asks, frowning a little. 

Danny wilts slightly, gestures at Derek and Stiles. “Stiles has an older boyfriend that you all hang out with, but his dad found out and went on a manhunt. _That_ ’s why everyone’s been secretive for the past, like, _six months_. Because his dad’s the Sheriff and you’ve gotta be _at least_ seven or eight years— What? Why are all you looking at me like that?” 

Everyone’s staring blankly, mouths hanging open. It’s dead silent for a moment as Derek tries to process _what in the name of hell is going on_ and then Boyd starts laughing, and _everyone’s_ laughing. Everyone except for Danny and Derek. Stiles is halfway to the floor, trying to pull himself up with the kitchen counter, and it’s so _loud_ , all of them laughing like this. 

“O _kay_ , so now someone’s going to have to catch me up. Because I’m lost.” 

The only one who’s calm enough to give him an answer is Derek. “It’s not like that. We were solving my sister’s murder,” he says roughly, and that kind of sobers everyone. It’s technically true, and it’s easier to shame him into not asking any more questions with it than it is to explain to him that half of the people in the room are werewolves. Because he’s so _confused_ and frustrated by the idea  of…by what Danny was thinking that he’s almost tempted to tell the truth.

“So this is really awkward now,” Danny mumbles, jamming his hands into his pockets. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles fills in smoothly, “we’ve got bigger things to deal with tonight. Like what the hell the difference between an inverse cosine and secant is.”

“And there’s food,” Derek says.

The boys in the living room all get to their feet. “Thank _God_ ,” Scott moans. 

In seconds, the kitchen’s a frenzy. Derek hasn’t seen a group meal this big since his family. It’s a little weird. Comforting, but weird. 

“Hey hey hey! Use a plate, dude!” Stiles’ voice rises over the clamor. “What? Were you raised by _wolves_?” He smirks to himself at that one, though Isaac whaps him upside the head for it, beating Derek to it. It’s not like he hasn’t heard _that_ one a million times. 

(Mostly from his own family. They used to make dog and wolf jokes _all the time_. There were a couple years when Laura and his mom would call him “Puppy Paws” because he hadn’t grown into his hands or feet yet. It was one of those harmless things they could laugh at easily.)

“You okay?” Boyd asks quietly, taking a bite out of a hot wing.

Derek nods. “Fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

 

Two hours later, he makes coffee. 

Derek spends the night in his room, for the most part. With the door open, he can hear them all below. Smell them. Sense them. The apartment feels like home with them in it. It’s a warm sort of feeling, and he lies there, dozing in and out in it. 

 

Everyone starts clearing out just before midnight. Allison and Danny have curfews, and they take Boyd and Lydia with them to drop off. Stiles stays for Scott and Isaac because they’re still having trouble. At around one, Derek goes down to clean up the meal time detritus. The three teenagers are tossing a ball back and forth, drilling definitions at Stiles’ instruction. 

“You all can sleep here if you need to,” Derek says when he’s finished cleaning up. 

“Can’t,” Scott says quickly. “My mom will _kill_ me if I’m not in bed in the morning. And Mr. Argent gave her some wolfsbane, so I’m not going to risk it.” Stiles doesn’t say anything, but Derek’s pretty sure that Scott’s his ride. 

“Don’t forget to lock up,” he tells Isaac and goes back upstairs.

 

Derek sleeps a little. Naps, really. 

When he finds himself oddly awake, it’s much later (earlier) than he’s usually up now that he has a job to get to in the mornings, and he can hear two heartbeats from the main room. Isaac and Stiles. There’s light coming from under his door, but their breathing patterns sound too even for them to be awake, and they’re not talking or making any other sort of noise. If the light’s on, though, that means they probably crashed. Which means Isaac probably forgot to lock the door. 

Derek’s awake. Might as well check.

When he gets downstairs, he realizes that “crashed” is a generous way to put it: Isaac’s head is at a weird angle, and his shoulders are half on the couch behind him, while Stiles, also on the floor, is using his textbook as a pillow. There are half-full coffee cups next to both of them, which Derek takes to the kitchen and sets down very gently. After thinking about it for a second, he finds a couple of extra blankets and sets them out. Goes to lock the front door.

At the click of the bolt sliding into place, he hears a sharp intake of breath and a startled murmur. Stiles rubs his face, then looks down at his book, at Isaac, at the papers spread out on the coffee table. Checks his phone. Swears. 

“You can take the couch. I’ll get Isaac onto the futon,” Derek says quietly. 

Stiles shakes his head. “No, my dad’s going to kill me. I was supposed to be home, like, three hours ago. _Balls_. There’s no way I’m getting the Jeep back this weekend.” Derek looks at Isaac. He’s _out_.

“I’ll take you home. Pack up,” he says, then goes over, scoops Isaac up, sets him on his futon. Isaac mumbles a little, but doesn’t wake; he’s a heavy sleeper. He curls into himself when Derek drapes a blanket over him.

 

The ride to the Stilinskis’ is quiet, dark. Derek’s eyes are wide with tiredness, dry. Stiles is unusually still. He’s half asleep, Derek realizes when he stops in front of the house. The living room light is on. Derek can hear the Sheriff’s heartbeat inside; he’s awake. 

“Your dad’s up,” he says when Stiles reaches for the door handle.

Stiles shuts his eyes, swears for a moment, then sighs, resigned. “You’re coming with me, then. You can plead my case. He _likes_ you.” Derek doesn’t smile, he’s too tired for that, but it’s nice to hear. It’s not like the Sheriff’s had any problems with him, but that’s not the same thing. 

Stiles goes in first, and Derek can sense the Sheriff’s disapproval like it’s a palpable thing.

“What the _hell_ , Stiles? Would you answer your goddamn—“ and then Derek’s coming in right behind him and the Sheriff looks very confused, then _angry_.

“Study group at my place,” Derek offers. “I took a nap, and they fell asleep.”

The Sheriff narrows his eyes. “Nothing dangerous or supernatural?”

“Nothing worse than trigonometry,” Derek says, then winces. “Which isn’t a good baseline, I know, but it was a homework night. Scout’s honor.” The Sheriff sighs. Looks at both of them. 

“Get upstairs, you,” he tells Stiles, then makes a commiserating face at Derek as Stiles retreats into the house. The kid throws a grateful smile over his shoulder. “Thanks for dropping him off. And letting them keep you up so late, _Jeez_. I’m wiped. But it’s hard to sleep when you know there’s worse things than underage drinking and recreational drugs out there.” Stiles has stopped on the stairs, Derek hears. Listening.

Derek shrugs, a little uncomfortable, because he _is_ one of those worse things. And because he can smell guilt from Stiles.

“But he’s safe, so go home. Get some sleep. I’ll see you bright and early in _oh_ —“ he checks his watch “—three hours. Damn. That kid’s gonna put me in an early grave.” Stiles’ guilt turns sharper, more potent, and Derek remembers that he’d never asked to get into this mess. He’d never asked for any of it.

“It’s not his fault,” Derek says quickly. “He stayed after some of the others left because Isaac needed help. If Isaac’s failing at the end of the marking period, they’ll look into his emancipation and put him into foster care. And I confiscated their phones anyway because Scott wouldn’t stop texting Allison.” 

The Sheriff smiles. “Young love. What can you do?” He shrugs, sighs tiredly. “Go home. Get an hour or two of sleep, Deputy.” Derek salutes, nods, leaves. 

When he gets in the car, his phone buzzes with a text from Stiles. **Thanks for saving my ass. Literally.**

After a second, he shoots back: **That’s not how you use “literally”.**

At the stop sign, when he checks his phone again, there’s one word: **Nerd.**

Derek doesn’t smile. He doesn’t. And if he does, well. He’s getting old, it’s late, and he’s tired. He’s not in control of his face.

 

In the morning, he brings the Sheriff a huge cup of coffee as an apology. 

 

For the next couple weeks, Derek goes from handling speeding tickets to breaking up parties to nailing shoplifters to handling bar brawls. It’s very goal-oriented work, easy to just take a task and follow through, and his senses and other advantages come in handy often enough. The Sheriff keeps a close eye on him at first, then slowly withdraws, though Derek knows he’s still watching from a distance. Derek’s not going to fuck up, though. This job is something he can do, something he can be good at, and he’s not going to fuck it up. 

The morning the Sheriff calls him for the first time, he’s technically off-duty. It’s also just after five. He answers quickly, just out of bed anyway.

“Morning, Sheriff. What’s up?” he asks, rubbing the sleep from his face.

“ _How fast can you get down near the western industrial park? I’ve got something down here I need you to take a look at._ ” Derek’s up, looking for pants — his uniform is at the station — and trying not to make too much noise.

“Twenty minutes, tops. I’ll find you,” he says quickly and hangs up. It doesn’t take him more than a minute to finish dressing and then he’s out the door. 

 

Derek finds the Sheriff by scent. 

It’s actually a somewhat familiar place. The last time he was here, he’d been running from Scott’s house, chasing Jackson. The club is a few hundred yards away, looking deserted in the Saturday dawn. But what he’s here for, he realizes as he jogs past the caution tape and a couple other deputies up to the Sheriff, is the body leaning against one wall of a concrete parking garage. The Sheriff’s crouching by the body, seeming to be in deep thought.

“I didn’t know I was experienced enough for homicide,” Derek says instead of a greeting. 

The Sheriff looks up at him, smiles mischievously. “I told them I wanted to see if you could handle a body. The bastards have a pool going on how long it’ll take you to puke.” He glances over his shoulder, then redirects his attention to the corpse. “Really, this is one of the weirdest things I’ve ever seen, and that’s including the _animal attacks_ back in January. What can you tell me?”

Derek looks the body over. Male, mid-twenties at the latest, good physical condition, given his musculature, and dressed like he’d been at the club the night before. Smells like it, too, still fresh and carrying traces of alcohol, cologne, sweat. The interesting thing, though, is that he’s _grinning_. Rigor mortis has set in, locking in a disturbingly blissful smile. It’s _bizarre_. And his face is hollowed, like the life had been sucked out of him.

“I’m never seen anything do something like this, but it’s supernatural, that’s for sure,” Derek says as he squats down to get a closer sniff. The dead man smells oddly like arousal, but not like sex itself. There’s another scent, too. Just barely familiar, but not something he can place. He locks it away in his memory. The man looks like his skin is a little tight, now that Derek looks, like it’s been shrink-wrapped to him, and he’s a little drier than he should be after so little time. 

“What’s your theory on what happened?” the Sheriff asks, and Derek can tell that it’s something of a test. 

After a beat, he says, “He was clubbing last night. Our mystery creature must have singled him out there, got him away under the pretense of a hook-up, and fed off of him.”

“ _Fed_?”

“It’s the only thing I can think of that would make him look like this. The body’s too fresh to look so dry. Like a husk.”

The Sheriff, smiling just a touch, looks at him. “This isn’t a vampire thing, is it?” It’s a joke, he’s sure.

“Never heard of any,” Derek tells him with certainty, “and this doesn’t look like you’d expect from a vampire. No bite marks of any kind, not that I can see. And his face. I don’t know what would do that.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty creepy. I don’t like it.”

Derek nods.

“Alright, well, the medical examiner should be here any minute. I’ll see what I can figure out on this end, but you should check out your Grimm’s Fairy Tales or whatever and find out what the hell we’re dealing with.” The Sheriff smirks to himself, then says, “I’m sure Stiles would _love_ to help. Judging by the state he was in when he got home last night, I’m sure he’d like nothing more than to be woken up early with _lots_ of loud noises. The vacuum’s in the hall closet at the top of the stairs, if you’re so inclined.” 

Derek grins; if Isaac knew how to get drunk, he’d do the same to him. “Of course, Sir. You know how boys track dirt in the house. It’s terrible. Really.” They stand, the Sheriff patting him on the shoulder as they rise. 

“You may play for a weirder team than most, but you sure know how to play ball. Key’s under the mat.” Derek nods, waves, stalks off. As he’s going, the Sheriff yells, loud enough for all to hear, “Those twenty-four hour flus can be _terrible_ , Deputy. Make sure you get plenty of fluids!” That sort of weakness, a small weakness, will help him fit in, avoid any appearance of favoritism.

One of the other deputies snickers, but another pats him on the back, says, “ _You lasted longer than me, man_.” Derek keeps going, heading to his car like someone who’s trying not to vomit, and peels away loudly. As he drives, he thinks about breakfast, but reconsiders. Stiles would probably steal some of his food because he’s like that. 

 

The key is easy enough to find, and Derek lets himself in quietly. Especially quietly. He climbs the stairs with his feet near the walls, where they’re quieter, and finds the hall closet and an outlet easily enough. Derek’s not overly fond of vacuum cleaners himself, even though the noise is fairly static, but he’s willing to suffer a little because he knows that Stiles will suffer infinitely more. 

Within fifteen seconds of vacuuming, he hears Stiles yell. “For the love of _God_ , Dad! It’s not even _six_ yet. This is _ridiculous_!” 

Derek keeps going, making sure to spend special attention to the area just outside Stiles’ door. 

“I _beg_ of you, just put it away. _Please._ ” 

When he doesn’t stop, the door flies open, and Stiles is standing there in a pair of boxers with cartoon characters on them. And then Stiles promptly falls backwards onto his ass, arms flailing wildly. He just sits there, open-mouthed, sputtering a little. Derek vacuums the threshold, making sure to get in close to the doorframe. 

“ _Morning_!” he yells over the noise. 

“I— You are _Satan_. How— _Why are you vacuuming my house at six in the fucking morning?_ ” 

Derek sighs, turns off the vacuum. “There’s been a murder. You and Lydia have been translating the bestiary, right? I need you to figure out what the hell we’re looking for.”

“And how the _hell_ does that involve you _vacuuming_?” Stiles asks, face contorting in disgust.

“Well,” Derek says, smirking with a delicious joy, “your father asked me to do a little spring cleaning. Well, _fall_ cleaning. Who am I to refuse my boss a clean house?” Stiles makes a face at him, flaps a _go away_ hand in his general direction. Shakes his head, sickened.

“Clearly, there are dark forces at work here, and I don’t mean your eyebrows. You and my dad? _Unholy_. Whatever evil allowed you to meet must be stopped.” Derek thinks immediately of the _very_ first time he’d met the Sheriff, but he knows that Stiles isn’t talking about Kate, has no idea about Kate, even though he’d probably be the one to figure it out on his own.

“That’s funny,” Derek says over his own thoughts, “because the way _I_ remember it, this annoying little birdie told him I killed my sister and that he should arrest me for it.”

Stiles looks panicked. “Oh my God. You’re right. This is _all my fault_. I brought this upon myself. This is the actual worst thing.” He reconsiders that after a second. “Actually, strike that: the _actual_ worst thing was you _vacuuming outside my door this morning_. You’re awful. I hate you. And you should make me breakfast if you want me to do work for you. Also, I need clothes. That’s definitely on the menu.” Stiles seems to be sort of trying to cover himself up, like he’s embarrassed, which is silly, but Derek’s not going to begrudge him for feeling uncomfortable while in a state of undress. 

“If you’re ready in five, I won’t leave for IHOP without you,” he says. It’s the least friendly way he knows how to say _I’ll buy you breakfast if you’ll help me_. Also, he’s hungry, so. It’ll be a good time to fill Stiles in anyway.

 

“So, I’ll tell you this: it sounds a little familiar,” Stiles says through a mouthful of pancake. “But Lydia and I have only _just_ finished translating the bestiary, cross-referencing with the unorganized mess on Peter’s laptop, adding in footnotes, making it searchable. _The works_. So I have seen so many supernatural creatures and things in the past weeks that it could really be anything. But I’ll take some Adderall, poke around and see what I can dig up.” Derek hadn’t realized they’d been working so intensely; he’d thought they’d just be doing a rough translation. He’s actually a little impressed.

“So you’ve made it organized, then?” he asks weakly. “Good.”

Stiles snorts. “ _Organized_? That’s an understatement. I’ve been categorizing everything in this database. So there’s a list of Things That Will Definitely Kill You, Things That Will Definitely Kill Me (that one’s a bit longer, go figure), Things That Could Mean the End of the World, et cetera, et cetera. It’s too bad we don’t know how often the thing needs to feed. That could really help narrow it down.”

“The goal is to catch it _before_ it kills again. Protect the unaware from the supernatural,” Derek says.

“Wow. You’re really getting into this whole cop thing, aren’t you?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m a sworn officer of the law. I’m trying to do my _job_.”

“That’s cute. I figured you were just one of those sniffer dogs. But my dad’s got you solving crimes and everything.” Derek looks at him for a second, carefully blank, then gets up.

“Last I checked, canine units don’t have wallets, so you can pay,” Derek tells him sharply. “I’ll leave you here if you’re not in my car in three.” There’s a little surge of guilt from Stiles, but anger too.

“Jesus. I was _joking_ ,” Stiles says, but Derek’s already halfway out the door. 

Yeah, he’s pissed, and he has every right to be. He works _hard_ at what he does, and he does it right. He’s doing something _right_. Inarguably right. Possibly for the first time. And he doesn’t need recognition for that, but he’s not going to tolerate some asshole kid belittling his efforts. He doesn’t deserve that. 

Which, in itself, is a strange thought. It feels like it’s been a long time since he hasn’t deserved something that’s been thrown at him. 

Stiles gets into the car. His body is loud, but his mouth stays shut. At first.

When they’re on the road, Stiles inhales like he’s about to speak, then doesn’t. But then he does it again, stinking of guilt.

“I’m sorry, okay? It’s just weird. I dunno, it’s just. My dad talks about you a lot. _Derek did this today really well, Derek did a good job this afternoon, and I’m so fucking_ proud _of Derek_. He doesn’t talk about me like that. I just thought that once that he knew everything I’ve been lying to him about, he’d think I did a good job or something. But whatever.” Stiles doesn’t look at him. He sinks into the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He still smells guilty, but he usually does, just a tinge. What he’s said, though, bounces around in Derek’s head, a steady, warm hum of approval. 

“Your dad talks about you _all the time_ ,” Derek tells him honestly, and Stiles looks at him suddenly, shocked. “Won’t shut up about you. He thinks the sun shines out of your ass, so I _really_ wouldn’t worry about it.” 

There’s a question there in his face that Stiles won’t ask, but maybe he needs to hear the answer.

“He says you’re strong and stubborn, that you take too much on your shoulders, like—“ and Derek isn’t sure that he wants to finish this, but he’s heard it so often, it feels like a lie not to “—like your mother. He’s always got your report card pinned to the office fridge. He’s…I would want my dad to be proud of me like that.”

Stiles looks supremely uncomfortable, like he craves praise but doesn’t know how to react to it. It’s clear on his face that he’s searching for a way to cheapen the moment to escape it, but he can’t find anything. He’s a flurry of small movements, contradictions. Derek tears his eyes back to the road, listens to the wind rustle the trees outside, and tries not to smell the strange mix guilt/grief/happiness that fills the car on the silent drive back to the house.

 

The Sheriff’s there when they get back. He looks at both of them. Frowns. 

Stiles looks uncomfortable, like he wants to hug him but doesn’t have an excuse, and the three of them shift awkwardly for a moment. 

“Didn’t even bring me back breakfast, did you?” the Sheriff says at last.

Derek’s about to mumble some sort of apology, but Stiles cuts him off. “Are you trying to tell me you _didn’t_ grab a donut this morning? Because I’m not buying it. But if you want, I’ll make you a spinach and egg-white omelet…”

The Sheriff grimaces. “Fine. Go do research stuff. I should have the autopsy report by noon, so I’ll make you a copy. I just want to figure out what this thing is and stop it as soon as we can.”

“Text me if you find anything?” Derek asks as Stiles gets to the stairs. 

“Sure thing, bro.” He runs up the stairs, leaving Derek and the Sheriff in the living room. In silence. 

“ _Bro_?” the Sheriff asks after a moment. 

Derek shrugs. “Do you want me to come in later?”

“Nah, it’s your day off. I’ll give it to Stiles. He’ll pass it on tonight when you come over for dinner.” _That_ catches Derek by surprise, but he rolls with it. “And _no_ , I hadn’t forgotten your promise. So. You drink beer, don’t you? Bring a six pack and your shiny happy self around seven.”

“Of course.”

In the car, he texts Stiles to fill Scott in; the last thing he needs to is to mess up the truce that has Scott at his place every week. He hasn’t quite agreed to be pack, but it’s a close thing, and they’re working on it.

 

Stiles texts him a little after noon that he might have it narrowed down to eleven likely monsters. 

 

At four, he says he’s finally got his hands on the autopsy report and that Derek should come over whenever he can. Derek’s running, clearing his head, but he turns back to head home

 

Almost an hour later, Derek picks up a six-pack of Blue Moon on his way over, the Harvest Pumpkin because it’s October and that’s autumn as far as he’s concerned. He can’t quite resist the joke of the brand, either, but he offers it to the Sheriff with a straight face. 

“He’s upstairs. Been pacing since I gave him the report,” the Sheriff says when he takes the beer to put it in the fridge. “It’s making me nervous. I’ve already got enough to worry about with trying to come up with a normal explanation for all of this.”

“ _Took you long enough!_ ” comes the yell from upstairs. The Sheriff blinks at him like he understands and waves Derek away. He climbs the stairs quickly. Stiles practically jumps him, shutting the door closed quickly. 

There are posters on the floor and a bookcase has been moved to free up a wall. In the center, Stiles has pinned the autopsy report, and surrounding it are print-outs from the translated bestiary and various other sources. Each print-out has at least a couple post-it notes on it, things that fit, things that don’t fit, things that might fit depending on the translation, things that fit other lore. Off to the side of the main web, there’s the sort of thing a cop would look at: how it looks like the creature selected a victim, the location of the body and what that means about the killer, a short profile the killer would have to fit in a human form to be able to find a victim. It’s a _lot_ to take in, actually.

“Well, _you_ ’ve been busy,” Derek says after a long moment.

“They do this on cop shows all the time, and I wanted to try it out. It’s actually really helpful. I think I might be a visual learner. Or kinesthetic, since it was arranging everything that really helped. I don’t know. I could be both.” It’s said in a little bit of a rush, and, wide-eyed, he wince-smiles. “I’ve had a bit of Adderall since you last saw me. Speaking of, I’m going to go pee. Be right back.” 

Derek frowns as he rushes out of the room, then takes in the empty water bottles scattered around, the colored pens everywhere, the books spread open on the bed. The air doesn’t smell chemically different, but there’s a flurry of different emotive scents in the air.  

Stiles comes back a second later, shuts the door again. 

“So. This is what I have,” he says, gesturing at the wall. “Tell me if something doesn’t make sense. I tried to lay everything out, but I tend to make cognitive leaps on accident. Also, keep in mind with all of the bestiary stuff that words aren’t really what they are. It’s archaic Latin, but some of that’s actually a translation of old French and early English, maybe even some Russian and Hebrew, from what we can tell. Lydia did the first translation, but that mostly stuck to words with Romantic roots, so the stuff with superscript numbers is the more casual version, from our more Germanic origins. I think it reads easier, but I included some connotation notes to cover what meaning might have been lost. 

“And then, keep in mind that this is mostly from the Argents’ bestiary, so it’s not just old and hasn't really been updated in a couple decades, it’s from hunters, not the creatures themselves. Peter’s stuff was mostly on werewolves and your culture, and doesn’t give us much for this. Basically, nothing's straight from the sources and we don’t know how accurate it is. It’s like—“ he pauses, thinking “—it’s like silver. The bestiary only shows a vague suspicion that silver wasn’t deadly to werewolves, probably because whatever weapons they were using were made of silver already and they just assumed, and then it wasn’t until they started making weapons out of steel or whatever that they realized they might be wrong. So it’s like that. The Argents were mostly focused on werewolves anyway, so from what we gather, everything else in the bestiary is just something they stumbled on accidentally. They probably didn’t study anything else too intensely.” 

Stiles grabs a half-full water bottle, drinking quickly while Derek tries to take all of that in. 

“Please tell me you’ve written all of that down somewhere,” Derek says at last.

“Oh, definitely. That was the Spark Notes version anyway. The preface I wrote to my own version of the bestiary is almost thirty pages. By the way, the whole thing is on, like, three separate back-up hard drives, and I’m trying to figure out how to get Danny to teach me to put it somewhere on the web so only our little group can access it. With a password, of course. And I’m thinking of getting my dad to open a safe deposit box, too, just in case.”

“ _Jesus_.” Derek doesn’t want to say that Stiles is a little paranoid or over-prepared or something, because he’s probably not, considering what they deal with, but it’s almost a little scary to hear his back-up plans. It makes him think of all the things that could possibly go wrong, like how much of their lives would have to be destroyed for them to need a back-up from a safe deposit box. 

“I think of worst case scenarios compulsively. It’s kind of a problem. But then I plan for them, and after, I feel a lot better. It’s how I deal.” Stiles frowns. “Sorry. I’m too talkative like this. It helps me think, which doesn’t really make sense because I think _way_ faster than I speak, but it is what it is. So.”

“Do you want to explain this all to me, then?” It’s not that Derek can’t read for himself, and it’s not that he minds reading everything Stiles has assembled; he just knows that as he’s taking it all in, Stiles is going to be bouncing around at the edge of his vision, antsy for him to finish. Which would be distracting and annoying. 

Stiles seems to get what he means by it, and he starts off with a little bit of a smile.

“Alright, so I’ll go over the autopsy report first,” Stiles says, heading over to the wall. “Right, so the victim’s name is Wade Linley. Twenty-six, no record. A couple tattoos, but normal stuff, nothing supernatural, and I figure you would have known if he wasn’t human? So just some guy. Except he’s very, very dead. His organs were dried and pruney, and apparently, the M.E. was pretty freaked. But on top of that, there were no defensive wounds. Still waiting on a tox screen, but I don’t think that’ll find anything weird. I think that whatever it is that killed him somehow subdued him, probably seduced him, given what you said about his smell. 

“My dad says he talked to a bouncer and the bartender at The Jungle, and he comes in pretty regularly, sometimes with friends, but not always. Last night, he was with a friend, one of his roommates, but _he_ said that Wade told him he was going home with someone. The bartender says he saw him with a couple guys, but no one saw him with the same person multiple times or noticed when he left. Wade was, from what my dad said, exclusively gay. Now, I think that, given all of this, we can assume that either the killer’s human form is either male or has the ability to appear male if it wishes. I don’t know if that’s actually a physical thing, or if it’s some sort of illusion or whatever.” Stiles sighs heavily, looking around at the wall. “Honestly, I don’t have enough data to tell you much. The whole wall thing was fun, but I don’t know how helpful it is because I just don’t have enough to narrow it down far enough to go on. I can tell you what it’s _not_ , more than anything. 

“It’s not a werewolf, vampire, mermaid, or any sort of nymph. It’s not a dragon, dwarf, kraken, goblin, orc, gargoyle, troll, unicorn, or giant. But there’s a lot of things it _could_ be that we can’t rule out yet. There’s ghosts, various types of demons, fairies, sirens, witches, wizards…not to mention, like, _djinn_ , other were-creatures, or fauns, or some other creature who could possibly turn into a human. The problem is that even though there are some it’s more _likely_ to be, there’s so much we only have a couple of sentences on, so we don’t know if any of this fits within the range of what they might do. And that’s not even _considering_ creatures we don’t know about yet. I don’t know if I’ve even done anything _remotely_ helpful, but I’ve gone through everything I have and this is the best I can do.” Stiles finishes, breathing a little hard. He grabs and shakes his water bottle to find that it’s empty. He looks _beyond_ frustrated, actually, and he smells a little angry, a little guilty, a little panicky. 

The protective instincts in Derek make him want to sit him down or something, but he knows that won’t do anything to help.

“Look,” Derek says softly. “You’ve done a _lot_ of work. And it _will_ help us, in the long run. But we won’t be able to solve it tonight. That’s not something we can do anything about. And that’s okay because we’re doing our best.” Derek’s not even sure why he says it. Because he _needs_ to get this thing before it kills again. More than anything. But seeing how much Stiles has done today and how even with that, they haven’t really gotten anywhere, it makes him angry. And even though a part of him wants to lash out, to tell Stiles that the answer’s there, he just needs to look harder, he knows that it’s not Stiles’ fault and he’s probably done more than Derek could have. So he’s not angry at Stiles, only a little angry at himself, but mostly he’s angry at this goddamn thing for killing someone and being hard to find. 

Stiles sits in his chair heavily. “I don’t like this. I’ve never liked this, not when we didn’t know who the Alpha was, not when we didn’t know who the kanima was, not when we couldn’t find the Master. I really fucking hate this. It’s _hard_. Why does it have to be _hard?_ Buffy always kills the bad guy by the end of the episode. Well, at first, at least.” 

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Real life is unpleasant.” 

Stiles laughs sharply. “Understatement of the fucking _millennium_.” 

“Yeah, well. It’s still true.” 

Derek stands there for a moment, not sure what to do now. It would probably be good to give Stiles a break from the research. 

“Have you written that essay yet?” he asks, thinking of the work Isaac’s been complaining about all day. 

“ _No_.” Stiles makes a face. “Not until I can invent a time machine and go back in to kill Thoreau. Man, _fuck_ walking through the woods. It’s a really stupid thing to do and it gets people turned into werewolves or killed. Neither of which I’m too big on.”

“It’s not really about the woods, you know,” Derek says, smirking.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I _know_ that. I’m in AP for a reason. I get that the whole nature thing is about getting in touch with stuff and rerouting the center of spirituality to the self and individualism _blah blah blah_. I just don’t like it, and every time my teacher tells me to go for a walk in the woods to brainstorm, I want to explain to her that my werewolf best friend _still_ doesn’t go running through the woods alone because he’s convinced that if it were possible to make it look like an accident, his girlfriend’s dad would kill him.”

“Chris and Scott still aren’t on good terms?” He’s been pretty much ignoring the existence of the Argents because they haven’t been a threat.

”They’re _okay_. But now that Allison’s mom is back, she can’t exactly leave the house, so Scott and Allison are pretty much always in an awkward situation because she can _smell_ things now. And they’re making Scott eat _dinner_ with them. That’s never a good idea. _Clearly_ , they’re plotting his early demise.”

Derek shifts a little. “Your dad asked me over for dinner tonight.” 

“Okay, but that’s different because a) we’re not having sex, and b) my dad thinks you’re awesome. He hasn’t been raised to kill your whole species either, so there’s that. It’s just going to be normal-awkward. Not imminent-death-awkward.” Even though he’d seemed a little surprised at first, Stiles doesn’t actually seem at all concerned. It’s probably okay, then.

“Good to know.” 

Stiles makes a weird, flat sort of smile and nods, locking his hands behind his head. He looks at the wall, then at Derek, then around his room.

“Welp, I’m gonna see if I can milk anything more out of this. You can do whatever you want. I have books—“ he gestures at the bookcase “—or I’m sure my dad’s watching something downstairs. Do whatever.” 

Derek nods, thinking about sitting, but he ends up back at the wall, combing over the autopsy report. Looks around at the different bestiary entries. Takes in Stiles’ notes. 

“We need to figure out its motivation,” Derek says as he studies the wall. “Instinctually, it looks like some sort of feeding, but what, exactly is it feeding on? Blood? Life? Something else? Or is it a spell? Cast at him? Or _using_ him?”

“We’d need to talk to it. Or we need a victim to escape. Or just another victim, probably. We don’t know if it’s only after men or if that was just a coincidence. What’s it _after_?” 

There’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Stiles barks.

The Sheriff opens the door, takes in the wall, the room. 

“Redecorating, I see.”

Stiles shrugs, tells him, “It helps.”

“Got anything?”

“Nothing yet, not really. Nothing concrete, at least,” Stiles says, looking a little down about it. 

“Well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it?” The Sheriff asks. “I mean, all of the _other_ supernatural murder sprees were, well, _sprees_. It was always more than one victim, and no one likes to hear this, but no one catches a serial killer after the first murder. Without motive, it’s almost impossible to catch _any_ sort of murderer unless there’s a ton of evidence at the scene, which there wasn’t. It’s just not going to solve itself all at once. It’s very possible that someone else is going to die before we solve this, and that’s unpleasant, but it’s reality.”

“How can you be _satisfied_ with that?” Stiles asks. Derek can hear him grinding his teeth.

The Sheriff looks his son in the eye hard. “I’m not. No one is. That’s why this job isn’t for everyone. It’s _hard_. But if you don’t stay calm and focus on what you _can_ control, if you let yourself get frustrated, then you’ll make mistakes.”

Stiles looks down, like he’s thinking that he hasn’t tried hard enough, but that’s not what the Sheriff means. Derek _knows_ it isn’t. He’s just taking it the wrong way. 

“The real reason I came up was to ask what we wanted to eat for dinner. So. What are we hungry for?”

“Anything’s good. Pizza, whatever,” Derek says when Stiles shrugs. 

The Sheriff nods. “Alright. Will do. By the way, I should get the tox screen back Wednesday, so we’ll know more then.” 

“Good,” Stiles tells him. 

For a moment, the Sheriff just stands there, then he nods, smiles tightly in agreement, and retreats. He pulls the door closed behind him, and Derek hears him hesitate for a moment before heading back downstairs. 

“He wasn’t talking about you,” Derek says.

Stiles doesn’t react, just turns back to his computer.

“He’s worried about how to explain this. When we find out what’s doing this and take care of it, he still has to figure out what he’s going to put in the official report. If he doesn’t frame things just right now, it could be bad for his job. _That_ ’s what he was talking about. Not you.”

“Whatever.” 

That’s supposed to be the end of it, but Derek doesn’t like that. Maybe it’s because the more comfortable Scott gets around him, the closer he gets to pack, the closer Stiles gets, too. Derek’s already starting to consider him one of his own. It’s not good, since Derek’s not good, not for anyone, but it’s not like he hasn’t been ignoring it for a long, long time. 

“You’ve done a _great_ job, Stiles. I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”

Stiles glances at him sideways a couple times, still facing the computer screen. He frowns a little, worries his lower lip between his teeth. Pointedly doesn’t respond. That’s his choice, but Derek knows he heard. That’s the important thing. 

 

After reading and re-reading the wall for a while, Derek’s head is buzzing with too much information to lock down. Stiles’ fingers seem to be tapping against the desk a little slower. The Sheriff isn’t home, gone out to get food, and it’s very quiet. Mentally tired, Derek plops down in the chair in the corner of the room.

“I think it’s time for a break,” he says. 

Stiles shrugs. “Go ahead. I’m not tired. You could get me some water, though.”

“Your dad will be home soon. Let’s go set the table. Come on.” 

Groaning, Stiles spins his chair around to face him. “Do I have to?”

“ _Yes_. And you need to eat. Don’t want Dad to wonder why you’re not hungry.” As soon as he says it, he freezes, catching himself. One of Stiles’ eyebrows rise slowly. Then he gets up from his chair, heading in the direction of the door.

“Come on, Freudian Slip. I’m not doing it myself,” he says. “Then he’ll _know_ something’s up.”

 

Stiles shows him where the plates and silverware are, makes him get out placemats and everything, then has Derek sit with him. Tells him to lace his hands together in front of him and _smile_. 

“It’ll scare him _to death_ ,” he says.

 

The Sheriff does, in fact, jump when he sees them. 

“Weirdos,” he says as he sets the pizza boxes down on the counter. “Come and get it. I’m not serving you.”

“Dad, you know there’s only three of us, right?” Stiles asks, looking at the two pizzas.

The Sheriff rolls his eyes. “Yeah. And whenever Scott comes over, he puts one away by himself. If that’s a werewolf thing, well, I’m not going to let a guest go hungry.”

Stiles laughs. “A _guest_? It’s _Derek_. There’s no need to play host. I don’t think he’d notice bad manners if you had them. Honestly, you’re lucky he’s using doors now.” 

“Since when does Derek not use doors?” the Sheriff asks, gently pulling a piece of cheesy pizza free of the pie. Stiles clamps up, looking a little shifty. 

“Uh, that’s a good question, actually.”

At his tone, the Sheriff turns. Gives Stiles a look.

“It’s possible I used a window once,” Derek fills in. “Extenuating circumstances: I may have been evading arrest at the time and I needed Stiles to trace a text message for me.”

“You didn’t tell me about that,” the Sheriff says, giving Stiles an odd look before turning back to the pizza. Stiles looks at Derek, panicked, shaking his head.

“It’s possible Stiles felt bad,” Derek says, smirking with perverse joy. “He did, after all, make me take my shirt off to convince his friend to do what we needed.” 

“I feel like I should be _more_ surprised by that,” the Sheriff says with a sigh, then looks at Stiles. “Did you apologize?”

Stiles reels, shocked. “What? No, I—“

“Well, then go ahead. You were raised better than that.” When Stiles makes an indignant noise, he crosses his arms over his chest, says, “ _Well_? I’m waiting.”

This is not really how Derek had seen this going, so he’s just as surprised when Stiles turns to him and says, “ _Sorry_.”

“For?” The Sheriff is really not fucking around, _Jesus_. 

“ _I’m sorry_ for using your body to get information without asking if it was okay first. Okay?” The last is aimed more at his dad than at Derek. The Sheriff nods, considering it acceptable.

“It’s fine,” Derek tells him. “I would have done it better if you’d told me what was going on, but it’s fine.” Stiles looks _more_ shocked somehow and the Sheriff makes that noise like he thinks that someone’s being an idiot. Derek’s not entirely sure _why_ , on either count, but the Sheriff is handing him a plate of sausage-and-pepperoni pizza so he chooses not to think about it.

“Seriously, Dad? Do they _make_ greasier pizza? I think just _looking_ at it is clogging my arteries,” Stiles says with a grimace.

“Oh, don’t worry. I got you veggie pizza. Enjoy.”

“What’s the point of trying to keep you healthy if you fight me at every turn?” Stiles asks with a glare. “I should just give up.” That’s a lie, Derek notices. Of course it is.

The Sheriff sits with a plate, looking completely untroubled. “It’s called a cheat day. I’m cheating. And it’s going to be delicious. I’m sorry that your healthy options just don’t offer the same delicious flavors, but I’m going to enjoy some food made for carnivores.” He looks up at Derek with a little triumphant grin. 

 _“I’ll show you some carnivores_ ,” Stiles mutters under his breath, sitting at the table.

“You know,” Derek tells the Sheriff, “you could go running with me sometime.” At the edge of his vision, Stiles brightens, but the Sheriff gives him a falsely-disappointed look, shakes his head.

“You’re a horrible traitor, aren’t you? I should have seen this coming.”

Derek shrugs. “I’d go easy on you. At first.”

“Some of us have very human middle-aged knees and flab. I don’t think your easy and my easy are the same thing.” He takes a big bite of pizza with an unhappy frown.

“Probably not, no—“ 

“But he _totally_ wouldn’t go too hard on his own boss,” Stiles interrupts. “That would be self-defeating.”

The Sheriff looks at both of them. “Why do I feel like everyone under my roof is plotting against me? This is some horrible health conspiracy, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much,” Derek says, unconcerned; the Sheriff will do it anyway. He’s just making his feelings known.

“Sucks to suck,” Stiles agrees.

It’s weird, but for a split second, Derek feels like he’s with family.

 

As they’re putting dishes away, Derek says, “I’m thinking of getting everyone together at my place tonight. I want to keep everyone filled in on what’s happening. Not talking to each other hasn’t really gone well.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, dropping a plate. “Are you _learning_ from your mistakes? Is that what’s happening now? _Good heavens, Charlie Brown, it’s a Christmas miracle!_ ”

“It’s October and the sarcasm is _not_ appreciated.” Derek picks up the plate Stiles had dropped. “And for the record, I’ve only ever not told people things to protect them. If I had told Scott about the Alpha Pack from the start, you don’t think he would have gone looking for them?” 

“Okay, fair point, but still. You had a rare moment of common sense and I refuse to believe that it’s not because of my influence.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Really, Stiles, you just don’t give yourself enough credit. It must be painful to be so humble.”

“ _Will you two stop bickering in there? The game is on!_ ” the Sheriff yells from the living room. “ _And bring the beer, will you?_ ” 

As Derek gets the beer from the fridge, Stiles’ hands go to his hips. “We’re not _really_ all watching the game together, are we? Because dinner was weird enough. But this is a new level. Baseball is a spiritual thing in this house,” he says, smelling a little less worried than his voice sounds.

“Come on. If you’re lucky, maybe your dad will let you have a beer.”

“ _Not in this lifetime!_ ” comes the reply from the other room. 

 

Derek’s not a huge fan of either of the teams playing, but watching the game is good stress relief. It’s something simple to focus on. There’s nothing really expected of him. The Sheriff is the kind of man who talks at the television and Stiles joins in, but Derek sits there, quiet and focused. It’s peaceful, in a strange, surrealist way. 

After, Stiles tells his dad that he’s going over to Derek’s. Derek sends out a text to everyone before getting in the car, and they head out.

 

Isaac is mildly surprised to see Stiles with him, but doesn’t comment on it. “Got your text,” he says, and they start moving furniture around to accommodate more people. Derek puts on a pot of coffee after, makes sure the place looks alright, and by then, Scott’s coming in with Allison. They’re both freshly showered. It’s cute that they think that’s hiding anything. 

Lydia and Boyd come next, since he’s the furthest out, and then Deaton and the Argents. 

It’s bizarre having them all here in the place where he lives, where his pack gathers, but it’s a show of peace that they’ll understand. They don’t need any extra problems with the current situation. 

When everyone’s seated, Derek speaks. “Late last night, a man was killed, and the Sheriff and I believe, given the evidence, that the death and the killer are supernatural in origin. There was absolutely nothing indicating a werewolf is the culprit, but I plan on taking care of it when we’re sure of what’s done it. Just so everyone’s aware of what’s going on.” 

There’s a moment of silence before Victoria Argent speaks. “Do we have any indication that whatever it is will kill again?”

“I believe that whatever killed the man did so to feed from him, but we can’t be sure yet,” Derek tells her.

“What _can_ we be sure of?” she asks, and Derek tells her everything. Stiles fills in when he leaves something out. Everyone sits and listens and no one interrupts him, which is just strange, but he can’t say he doesn’t like it. 

Then, they just sit there for a moment. 

“We could have some men on a surveillance detail around the club,” Victoria says. “Just to keep our bases covered. And if, when we find this creature, you kill it, we won’t come after you for it. That’s all I’m promising.” She says that, but it’s _huge_ that they’re working together this much. 

“I could take a look at the body,” Deaton offers. “I’m a little more versed in this business than the county medical examiner, and I might find something more helpful.”

Derek nods, says, “I’ll let the Sheriff know. He might be able to get you in.”

And then, for a while, no one speaks. No one moves.

“Well,” Chris says, “this was nice tete-a-tete, but we have an episode of Battlestar Galactica to finish, so we’ll be on our way. Allison, remember: your curfew is more than just guidelines.” Allison rolls her eyes, but nods and smiles at them as they go.

Deaton bows out with that strange enigmatic air he always has, and then Derek’s sitting in his living room with a bunch of teenagers and no idea, really, of what to do. 

“So, who’s up for a board game?” Stiles says, and everyone laughs with a mixture of nervousness and amusement. 

“We should probably talk about the fact that the next full moon is in two weeks,” Lydia says. 

Derek nods. “I know everyone has their own thing, but this moon is the Hunter’s Moon, the Blood Moon. Historically, the pack would hunt together and have an outdoor feast. These days, it’s more of a pot luck, but…” he trails off, unsure of what he’s trying to say. He’s not going to convince anyone to do anything with _that_ attempt.

“Wait, there’s a werewolf Thanksgiving?” Stiles asks, grinning. 

“I suppose so.” When he was younger, his family would celebrate Thanksgiving sometimes as well, but it was usually small and primarily for the humans in the pack.

“Guys, we totally have to celebrate Wolfsgiving! How great would that be? We can make little werewolf pilgrims—“

Derek cuts him off, saying, “There aren’t any pilgrims for the Hunter’s Moon. That’s not how it works.”

“Then _tell us_ how it works,” Lydia says, “and we’ll pull something together. You said outdoors? We could use my backyard. My mom will be out of town for the whole last week of October.”

“My mom and I could cook something,” Scott says quietly. 

Allison, squeezing his hand, says, “I’m sure I can get my parents to come. If that’s not too weird, what with it being the _Hunter_ ’s Moon and all.”

Derek shakes his head. “No, it would be good. We’re _all_ hunters, instinctively. It’s a recognition of that side of each of us and a celebration of how the pack can work together as a unit. Bonding. There’s some ritual with it, too, but I don’t know it. I never really paid much attention.” 

“Well, we’ll figure it out because Operation: Wolfsgiving is _on_ ,” Stiles says. “Now. We’re all here and it’s a Saturday night, and we’re all going to do something fun. I’m thinking Charades, but I don’t know what kind of party games werewolves can play without cheating.”

“It’s not cheating if you can’t help it!” Scott says, punching him in the arm.

Stiles frowns, shakes his head. “ _Yes_ , it totally is. You think that defense would hold up in court? It’s weak and you know it. And as official spokesperson for Team Human, I’m saying no games that you lot have an unfair advantage in.”

“Since when are you our official spokesperson?” Lydia asks. “I don’t remember voting for you. And if we put it to a vote, I’m pretty sure I would win.” Everyone seems to agree, including Stiles. 

“I think we should still play a game,” Boyd offers. It seems to be the consensus.

“I don’t have any board games,” Derek tells them.

Stiles says, “That’s fine because I have about a _million_. Scott can swing me home and we’ll pick out a few options.”

 

In the end, they play Clue. 

It could go worse. 

There’s no cheating beyond leaning over to see someone’s cards, which anyone can do, and Lydia wins. She has far more boxes marked off than anyone else, ones she probably shouldn’t, but when Stiles complains, she just says “ _m_ _icro expressions_ ” and beams a smug little smile.

Then there’s a second game, which she also wins, but it’s a closer game. She’s not the first to guess, and she couldn’t have done it if Boyd hadn’t guessed first. No one really cares too much anyway because that’s not really the point. The point is that they’re all together and even if what they are isn’t quite whole or together, it’s still something that’s better when they’re not separated. They’re happy, and even though Derek can’t tell if they’re all happier than usual, it’s enough. It’s good. Even though he knows they might be on the precipice of another horrible mess, right now, it’s good. 

 

On Monday, Deaton agrees that Wade Linley had been fed on but has nothing more.

 

On Wednesday, the tox screen comes back negative for any drugs. 

 

On Friday, it happens again.

 

They find the body in the morning again, and it’s the same. This man’s a little shorter, a little more muscular, but other than that, almost everything is the same. The body’s in the same general area, even, but a little closer to the club. There aren’t any security cameras, though, so that doesn’t really make any difference. 

The bartender says that he doesn’t remember serving any unaccompanied strangers, that he doesn’t remember seeing the guy with anyone. Same story, basically. Derek would say that they’re S.O.L. but they’re _not_. They have a general idea of possible targets (good-looking men at the club) and some sort of timeframe. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s enough that the Sheriff has told him to go undercover next Friday. Unofficially. But they have something, and they have a plan, and maybe someone else doesn’t have to die.

 

Except it happens _again_ that night. 

 

The new body is a little further away, but the guy fits the pattern, even though the frequency doesn’t. It has everyone on edge. 

“When serial killers leave shorter intervals between kills, it’s a sign that they’re spiraling,” the Sheriff says before blowing on his coffee. “This doesn’t look good.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Derek agrees, “but since it’s feeding, it might tell us something. If these murders just started and the bartender hasn’t seen any strangers, it could be someone who’s lived in town for a while. Two weeks ago, they might not have been whatever they are. Maybe something slipped through the Argents’ watch and turned someone into something? Who knows?”

“ _Exactly_. We don’t know,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “Goddammit, this is _hot_!” The Sheriff puts the coffee down on the asphalt, scowling. The body’s only a few feet away, but Derek’s not looking at it; the smile is creepy.

“But we _do_ know a bit. We know who it’s after. We know pretty vaguely _why_. And Stiles thinks that, given the oxytocin in the first man’s bloodstream, it might be able to affect them chemically, so we may even have a how.”

“What does that even _mean_?”

Derek glances at the body quickly. “Pheromones, I think. They’ve all smelled like arousal. If this thing could do that, could make them pliable and easy to convince to get away, it would make sense.”

“Couldn’t a normal, attractive guy do the same thing?” the Sheriff asks, daring to test his coffee again.

“There’s too much,” Derek tells him. “The oxytocin is weird on its own, but the smell is too strong. People don’t smell like that unless they’re in the middle of sex, and the first two didn’t show any signs of sexual activity. Their clothes have all been in place. No hickies or other marks. It’s not normal for the scent to be so strong. The thing must have done it.”

“So, basically, we’re looking for some sort of evil sex demon?” 

It’s supposed to be a joke, Derek can tell, but something about that sticks in his mind and he’s not sure why.

“Uh oh. I know that look. What is it?” the Sheriff asks. 

Derek stands, digging into his pocket for his phone. “I need to talk to Stiles. I’ll come in for my shift later, but I think we might have something.” The Sheriff nods, waves him off, and as Derek jogs to his car, he calls Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t answer. Four rings, nothing.

So Derek tries again. Nothing. 

And then he realizes that it’s not quite four in the morning and Stiles is asleep. Oh well. 

 

Stiles falls to the floor when Derek wakes him. His lacrosse stick is in his hands and his eyes are wide, alert, but he’d been dead asleep when Derek had entered the room.

“I almost _killed_ you just now, you asshole! What the _fuck_? It’s _dark_. I shouldn’t be awake. _No one_ should be awake. Go away.”

Derek sticks his hand out in front of him, holding a steaming cup. “I brought you coffee. Now wake up. I need you alert.” Stiles takes the coffee, scowling in a way that eerily similar to his father. Sniffs it. 

“Fine. What’s the rush? And turn the goddamn light on, will you? I can’t believe you were creeping around my room in the dark. That’s completely unnecessarily terrifying.” Derek flips the switch, and Stiles recoils, covering his face.

“ _That_ was why I left the light off.”

Stiles half-growls. “Don’t be such a smartass. I’ve only been asleep for, like, an hour. I don’t think I really know what year it is, okay? Pity me.” 

Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. As Stiles sips his coffee, he sits in the desk chair. He turns back and forth anxiously, fingers gripping the arms tightly. 

“I hate you,” Stiles informs him, then chugs the coffee, hops up, shakes himself out. He’s wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and boxers, but he’s in the moment, and that’s what Derek needs from him right now.

“There’s been another killing,” he says.

Stiles smacks his head. “Why didn’t you _lead_ with that? _God_.”

“Shut up. Anyway, there’s been another killing. I was at the scene with your dad and he said something, and I need you to tell me everything that comes to mind when I say ‘sex demon’.” 

“Well, _Stiles Stilinski_ for one.” Derek’s not impressed. “Okay, fine, you have no sense of humor in the morning, good to know. Um, sex demon?” He frowns, thinking, then makes an exasperated noise. “Fuck, of _course_. Duh. It totally fits. I’m an _idiot_ ,” he says, rushing over to the computer so quickly that Derek barely has time to roll out of his way. Stiles pulls up a window, types furiously, then jabs at the screen.

“What’s this?” Derek asks, leaning forwards.

“Your sex demon. Well, I think, at least. An incubus. I hadn’t put it up on the wall because everything I have says they go after women, but hey, maybe supernatural creatures can be gay, too!” Derek looks at him, waiting for him to go on. “Okay, so the bestiary says that there were reports of women waking up pregnant or something like that, but then there’s a line here that says that at least a woman or two in this town died. Well, it says ‘ _death came to them hungrily in the night and they were pleased to meet it_ ’ which doesn’t make much sense, but a lot of the stuff in the bestiary from around this time is written weird and confusing like that—I think someone had some unfulfilled dreams of being a writer—so what if it means that they were _smiling_? Okay, and it looks here like Peter’s records mention that another pack had a truce with a family of incubi.”

“That sounds pretty solid.”

“Here, let me try something that might not work.” Stiles types something in, scans the new results. “Okay, yes! Here, this is a reference to ‘smiling like a demon’s ill-fated lover’. That sounds right. And…okay, this looks good. A few decades ago, the Argents were talking to another family of hunters whose daughter had recently died. They found her—get this— _grinning_ _from ear to ear_. One of the kids was traumatized, _blah blah blah_ , the point is, I think we’ve found our match.”

“Does it say how to kill it?” 

Stiles winces. “No. Like I told you, the Argents didn’t exactly write field reports for everything they came across. We’re lucky we have what we have. Hell, they didn’t even know incubi could be gay. Which, technically, we don’t know either, but I think that if lions and people and natural creatures can be gay, supernatural ones can, too.”

“So now we know what it is but we still have no idea how to find it or kill it. _Great_.”

“Hey,” Stiles says. “You know more than you did ten minutes ago.”

Derek concedes that point. They know more, but they can’t do much with the information. 

“Question: are there gay werewolves?” Stiles asks. Derek gives him a dry look. “I don’t know what that face means. Is that a _no, what are you talking about, Stiles, grrr_ look or is that a _don’t you know all werewolves are gay werewolves_ look?”

“ _Some_. I don’t know if there’s more or less than humans.” Stiles seems mildly pleased with that information. “What, do you want me to talk to Isaac for you?” Derek asks sarcastically.

Stiles looks scandalized. “ _No_ , good God. _Isaac_? No way. That’s _weird_.”

“Boyd, then?” Derek asks, just for the reaction.

“Do you want me to _die_? Because I’m pretty sure Boyd would actually kill me if I tried flirting with him. I don’t _actually_ have a death wish,” Stiles tells him. “ _Anyway_ , before you imply something awful with Scott, what are we going to do about our little horny friend?”

Derek gives him a blank look, letting the joke fall flat.

“ _No_ , that was _not_ in reference to myself, I was moving on to the incubus, Jesus. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m going to the club Friday night to see if I can see anything.”

“Huh. Is that going down _this_ Friday?” Stiles asks, scratching the back of his neck.

“ _Yes_ , _this_ Friday. Did you have another Friday in mind?”

Stiles shrugs. “No, I just— Don’t worry about it.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Stiles assures him. “Just…my friend’s birthday. Party. It’s that night. So yeah.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate to break it to you, Stiles, but you weren’t exactly invited on my _undercover mission_.”

“Okay, first off, you’re a deputy for the sixth smallest county in California; it’s not a _mission_ , it’s just an assignment. Second, my friend is going to be having her party at the club, so your little _undercover assignment_ is kind of really poorly-timed.” 

“Are you _serious_ right now?” he asks. Stiles frowns angrily at him. “You didn’t think to tell your friend to move her party to a day that two people haven’t been _killed_ on?”

“Look, we didn’t know until yesterday morning that Friday was a thing, and anyway, they’re all older than me and they know each other really well, and I’m not really in a position to tell them to have their party on another day. But I mean, they go there all the time and they know basically everyone, so I think they’ll be okay, I’m just a little worried, alright? Because usually when you and I and some other supernatural creature are in a room together, one of us nearly _dies_. And also I kind of like hanging out with people who don’t know that werewolves are real. I don’t want to lose that because you almost get yourself killed, like, _all the time_.” 

“I haven’t been in a near-death situation since the Alphas,” Derek tells him.

“ _Yeah_ , and that was a bit nearer than usual, _and_ ended up with someone I care about learning about a bunch of dangerous stuff.”

Derek looks at him, frowning. “I have to do this. It’s happening, whether you like it or not, but I’ll keep an eye out for you and your friends.”

Stiles snorts, but he doesn’t argue.

“And in the meantime, why don’t you ask your friends if they’ve seen anything? We could use an in like that.”

“I don’t want to drag them into this. That’s not fair,” Stiles says. For a second, he grins at a private joke.

“I’m not asking you to tell them anything. Just say your dad mentioned the club and that you want to know what’s going on. It’s not hard. They’ll think you’re just a little Sheriff-in-training.” 

Stiles glares. “Don’t patronize me. My dad might like you, but you have to earn it from _me_ still.” 

“I wasn’t—“ Derek shuts his mouth, annoyed at himself for being frustrated, at Stiles for being the root of that frustration. “I just don’t want you there that night. Or at all. It’s not safe.” How’s he supposed to protect Stiles if he’s throwing himself into danger? It’s impossible.

“I don’t even _look lik_ e the victims. I mean, I haven’t seen the last one, but the first two were built, good-looking guys, both a few years older than me. I’m _fine_. Honestly, _you_ have more to worry about than I do. Our wily sex demon could see you across a crowded room and seduce you.” He waggles his fingers to simulate magic or something, but Derek’s not impressed. Stiles doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“ _Trust me_ , that’s not an issue. I don’t _get seduced_.” 

Stiles gives him a dead look. “Don’t make me punch you. You have got so much going on for you that it’s actually physically painful for other people, so don’t go with this self-pitying _ooh, I’m not pretty enough, no one wants to seduce little old me_ spiel. Because that is. Bull. Shit.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Derek says, suddenly uncomfortable. “I just meant that I can spot it a mile away.” His voice comes out a little softer than he’d like, but he’s never been comfortable with people talking about how he looks. Especially not like this. Someone looking at him and telling him that he’s hot because they wanna fuck him? _That_ makes sense and he knows how to handle it. He’s been told he could be a prostitute or a porn star and didn’t even blink, but when there’s not that immediate _I want to have sex with you_ subtext, it’s strange. It feels weird. 

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “Well, that’s awkward, then. I guess I’m glad I didn’t have to give you the full speech? It involved mirrors. Lots of them. And lots of me pointing and yelling. And there may have been a sing-along portion. _West Side Story_.” 

“Why do you have the full speech planned out?” Derek asks, not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Lydia.” Stiles winces. “Well, it’s her speech. I may have been the victim a couple times when I was feeling sorry for myself.” Derek has a feeling that he knows what he’s supposed to say now, what romantic comedies and politeness have taught him is right, but it’s a leap he can’t make. He feels weird still and he doesn’t like it, and he doesn’t want to do what’s expected of him.

“I’m not going to tell you that you’re _pretty_.” 

Stiles is suddenly defensive. “Jesus, I wasn’t _asking_ you to. I was just answering your question. I’m not that needy.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, _good_.”

They stand there for a moment, quiet and not quite angry. Aware that they’re on different pages and annoyed because of it. And part of it might be that Derek wants to explain that when it comes to seduction, he could probably give the incubus a run for his money, that he’s _good_ at it, that he hates it more than anything, that sometimes he wants to burn his skin off, that looking like he does isn’t really power because everyone wants to take it away and make it their own. That if someone offered him the option of being ugly and having his family, he would do anything to take it. But he’s not and they’re gone and it’s his fault. That’s how things are. 

Even though being ugly hadn’t protected anyone. He’d been a gangly, toothy kid with big ears and he’d still ruined everything for the first person who’d told him he was good-looking. Beautiful, even. And then, like some awful curse, he’d grown into his body, his face, and everyone started telling him. He couldn’t escape. Because people look at beautiful things and want to destroy them, and he’s never understood why. He just knows that no one who looks at him for his face or his body wants to do anything good. It’s just the way he is.

And when he looks at Stiles, he can see that happening to him. Can see the awkward kid who’s growing into someone that’ll make people double take. It’s no good for him. Stiles cares too much about the people he loves and even those, like Derek, that he doesn’t. It would be so _easy_ for someone to reach into him and find everything they need to make a monster. To take the guilt he carries because of the weight of his heart and turn it into something huge and ugly that would claim him, make him hate everything he is, make see himself purely in terms of failure and just desserts. Stiles doesn’t know what’s coming for him, that’s the thing, and even if Derek could put it in words for him, he wouldn’t believe a human being could do that to anyone, could have that power over anyone, or that someone could just _take_ that part of someone. But what he doesn’t get is that there’s no need to take what’s freely given.  

“I need you to stay away from that club,” Derek says because he can’t say _from the world_. 

Stiles stares at him hard. “I can’t do that. I have friends there. And _I don’t want to_.” 

“Then I’ll be with you. You won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“That’s not fair,” Stiles tells him; he’s half right. “You can’t insinuate yourself into my life like that.”

“You can’t protect yourself,” Derek says simply. “I can. That means it’s my job.”

Stiles shakes his head. “That’s not how it works.”

“Yeah, it is. And I’m done talking about it. Thanks for your input, but it’s not your decision.” He knows he’s being harsh, maybe unnecessarily, but he’s not going to let Stiles get broken. He doesn’t deserve it.

“Sometimes, you’re alright, Derek, but _sometimes_ , you’re a massive dick. You know that? I really hate you sometimes.” This, here, is not a lie. Stiles believes every syllable to be true. If what it takes is his hatred, Derek can take it. It’s better that Stiles hate him than hate himself. It’s better that he hate Derek than love someone who will replace every inch of that love with self-loathing and guilt and rage. 

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll have more information on the last murder soon,” he says, ignoring the look on Stiles’ face.

 

Thursday, he gets the text: **Friends didn’t see anything. Party’s still on. Fuck you.**

 

Friday night, he gets dressed and considers calling the Sheriff to tell him that it would be a good idea to ground Stiles, even if it might be a little preemptive. In the end, he doesn’t touch his phone. He just thinks about it. Too much.

But then the Sheriff’s at his door, so he doesn’t have to. 

Derek lets him in with something less than a smile. He sees Isaac on the couch and gives him a wave. 

“Good to see you, Isaac. Mind if I borrow him?” 

“No problem, Sir,” Isaac says with a sweet smile. He’s a charmer when it works in his favor.

“Ready?” the Sheriff asks. Derek nods. “Good. Let’s go.”

He slides into Derek’s passenger seat, closes the door, but puts his hand on the wheel.

“I just want to make sure you know what you need to know. You’re not acting on behalf of the department tonight, but you still represent us, so don’t do anything too showy. Just find him, isolate him, and decide what’s necessary at that point. If you need to kill him, clean up after yourself. I don’t want to have to arrest you for murder again. Got it?”

Derek nods.

“Good. And, I know I don’t really have to say this, but don’t get…distracted. I’ve seen guys who’ve let bad people go free for a pretty face, and you don’t want to be that guy. Trust me. Be on your guard. I have a sneaking suspicion that my son is going to show up, so stay alert and stay focused. It’s a lot of pressure, I know, but this is a tricky situation we’re in. Working between the law and the public good isn’t easy.”

“I’ll do my best,” Derek assures him. “And I won’t be distracted. That’s not a problem for me.”

“Alright. Well, good luck, son.” He claps Derek on the shoulder before getting out of the car, and Derek has to remind himself that the Sheriff uses that word casually. 

 

The club is thumping with bass when he gets there. There’s a line to get in, even though people have definitely heard about the murders. The bouncer takes one look at Derek and lets him in at the front.

It’s loud, incredibly loud, but Derek’s good at tuning down his hearing. He locates the bar, the stage, the DJ booth easily; he’s been inside before, but he hadn’t been paying much attention that time. There are dancers, he notices, on platforms above the main crowd, and colorful lights. It’s a lot to scour through. So he does the smart thing and goes to the bar to order a drink. 

When the bartender makes it over to him, he’s already got a drink in his hand. “This one’s on that gentleman over there,” he tells Derek, nodding at a reasonably good-looking guy across the bar. He’s not the right type for the incubus, though, so Derek raises his glass in a toast and starts moving around the room. 

It’s not long before his ears have adjusted enough that he can pick out Stiles’ breathing and heartbeat. 

He considers canvassing the room before checking on him, but he’s curious and has a terrible mental image of Stiles being surrounded by large men who will get him drunk enough to touch without protest. Grimacing, he strolls to the corner seating area, avoiding eye contact from several men who look his way. 

Stiles is sitting nearly in the middle of a group of six or seven drag queens, glaring at what appears to be a shirley temple. When he puts it down and reaches for something in a martini glass, a queen with Dallas curls smacks his hand. He scowls. Then tries to talk someone named Fantasia into getting him a real drink.

Derek approaches. Stiles doesn’t see him, but his friends certainly do. Not in the way he’s been looked at since coming in. No, this is a bit more vicious, angry. He’s wondering what Stiles has told them, thinking about how he’ll play it off, when he gets to them. Stiles is still arguing with Fantasia, but one drag queen with teased dark hair stops Derek before he can get to him.

“Don’t even think about it, Handsome. This one’s not on the market. Go find yourself a nice little twink to play with. Run along.” And then Stiles turns, his face doing something between a smile and a glare, like he’s not sure which he means more. (He’s leaning towards the glare.)

“What are you doing here? Go away,” Stiles tells him.

“You know him? Do we need to take care of him?” the drag queen asks.

Stiles winces, considering it. “I can handle him,” he says after a second. “He’s just a pain in the ass.”

“He better not be. He’s way too old for you, Sugar.”

“Oh. No, not like that,” Stiles says, making a face. “We’re friends. Well, not _friends_ , really. Acquaintances. He works for my dad. And he’s supposed to be _leaving me alone tonight_.”

“Funny, I don’t remember agreeing to that,” Derek says dryly. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, says, “Look, I’m not doing anything bad, I’m just hanging out, so relax and go do your thing. Shake your moneymaker, Derek. Have some fun. _Over there_. Far away.”

“You heard him,” Fantasia says, giving him a look.

“Just don’t let him go off by himself tonight. Or leave with someone. Please?” Derek tries a smile, appealing to their protective instincts, and it seems to work.

“We’re not stupid. He’s staying right here with us all night.”

“ _Thank y_ —“

Stiles cuts him off, saying, “Seriously, does _no one_ trust me? This is ridiculous.”

“I trust you just fine,” Derek tells him. “It’s other people I don’t trust. So don’t fuck around just because you’re pissed at me. There are plenty of people here with nothing but bad intentions towards you, and I’ll do what I have to to keep you safe.”

“Ugh,” Stiles says with an exaggerated groan. “Don’t give me that _I just wanna keep you safe_ bullshit. I am _not_ an action hero's female love interest, and it’s getting  _old_.”

“I made a promise to your father to protect you, and I’m going to keep it, so shut up and deal with it.” 

It’s not the most mature thing he does, storming away. And all he can hear is Stiles bitching about him even as he puts space between them. _Which is what Stiles wanted in the first place_. It’s annoying and he wants to punch something and he’s thinking about it, really, when he catches the scent. Just a little burst of it, tiny and almost imaginary, but that’s it. It was on the bodies, the one smell he couldn’t place. Some sort of cologne, maybe?

The incubus is here.

Derek scents the air, trying to move around the room to cover as much ground as possible. But he can’t find it again. He must be hiding in the mass of dancers, or gone to the restroom, or outside for a smoke. Fifteen minutes of searching and he drops his nose from the air, resigned that he’ll find it again if he stops trying so hard. He’s walking back towards the bar when he realizes that Stiles is getting closer. Whirling, Derek finds him, flanked by a drag queen. 

“What do you want?” he asks, coming up to them.

Stiles looks back at the drag queen, smiling. “I’m good with him. I swear. I’ll come back later.” She looks at Derek, then nods, heading back to the corner. Stiles turns on him immediately, glaring. “So here’s what’s going to happen: I’ll play nice if you’ll buy me drinks.”

Derek looks at him for a moment. “Are you fucking kidding me? You sought me out because you want to get _drunk_? Stiles, I’m actually _doing_ something right now. I’m not here to have fun. I’m trying to stop someone from _killing_ people.”

“Dude. For the past hour, I’ve been sitting with people who are either talking about people I’ve never met or trying to get me to talk about my love life. Which, for the record, _doesn’t exist_ , and I’m _painfully_ aware of that fact. Meanwhile, yeah, there’s a sex demon on the loose and you’re trying to find him, whatever, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from television, it’s that while you think you’re hunting him, he’s probably hunting _you_. So I’m a _little_ stressed right now, and I want a goddamn _drink_.” 

Stiles isn’t worried about his safety; he’s worried about Derek making a bloody, violent scene or embarrassing him. So part of him is pissed off because of that, but he recognizes that if he buys Stiles a drink, he can get rid of him so Derek can _concentrate_. 

“I’m going to regret this,” Derek says with certainty, taking Stiles by the arm to the bar. “One Long Island,” he tells the bartender, getting out his wallet. Stiles makes a sad attempt at being casual, leaning against the bar, looking around the club.

“Oh, look! It’s Danny!” Stiles waves, jumping a little. Derek glances over his shoulder, seeing that Danny’s attention has been sufficiently gained to get him to come over. “Danny has a really good fake, so he can actually buy his own drinks, but it’s not completely uncool that you’re my Sugar Daddy.” Derek wants to snarl at him for that because it’s _wrong._  On so many levels.

And then he smells it. And he _knows_. As it gets stronger, he grits his teeth, leans in to Stiles.

“It’s him. It’s Danny. He’s the incubus,” he hisses, then looks up at the bartender, pays for the drink. Takes a sip, which, if Stiles hadn’t been gaping in shock, would have provoked a reaction. “Say hi, take your drink, and then go. I’ll text you.” He pushes the drink into Stiles’ chest until he takes it. 

Danny gets to them, grins. 

“Hey, guys. Fancy seeing you here. I didn’t know you went clubbing.” Most of this is directed at Derek, actually. Well, Derek’s _biceps_ , since he’s wearing a tank top. Danny barely spares a glance at Stiles, _thank God_. 

“Yeah, I haven’t been out lately, but I used to go out a lot. Back in New York.” He talks lightly, smiling just a little. 

Danny whistles. “New York? Wow. I’ve never been. What’s it like?”

Stiles grumbles, pushing past him, and says, “I’m going to go hang out with my _friends_.” Derek ignores him.

“Oh, man, New York’s great. There’s always something to do, people to meet. I’d kind of missed it for a while, but New York doesn’t have _everything_.” He says it with intent, looking Danny up and down, which seems to be the trick. Danny smiles, dimples standing out. 

“Well, it’s not much compared to New York, but there’s definitely plenty to do right here.” Looking him in the eyes, Danny reaches out and lightly touches his arm. It’s surprisingly warm, makes him a little dizzy, but less than a second later, he’s fine.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Derek asks with a little smirk.

Danny grins. “I was going to ask you exactly the same thing.”

They make it to the parking lot easily. Danny seems to want to go in another direction, but Derek tells him that his car’s right there, and he seems to settle. 

Derek opens the passenger door, and when Danny calls him a gentleman, says, “Not even close.” As he goes around to his side, he pulls out his phone and starts texting Stiles the plan. 

“Who’s that?” Danny asks, a little concerned.

“Stiles. I was on babysitting duty tonight,” he says, wincing, “but he’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. And I can think of a hundred things I’d rather be doing.”

Danny smirks. “Yeah?” He touches Derek’s arm again, but he’s ready for it, doesn’t even blink. “I bet we could do a few of those things right here.” 

“Some things are worth the wait. I know just the place. It’ll be worth it, I promise.” Danny looks uncomfortable with that, but seems to agree. When Derek leaves the parking lot, though, he touches Derek’s knee, then his thigh. It’s not innocent, but not too forward either, not really. Derek has to divert a little attention to pushing off whatever the hell Danny can do with his hands, though. It’s potent, and he gets the feeling that Danny might be trying to force it into him a little. Because this isn’t his usual game plan. It’s making him nervous, Derek can smell it. 

 

It takes maybe twenty minutes to get to Deaton’s, but only because he takes the long way on purpose. Danny looks surprised and a little confused when he parks.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Thinking fast, Derek leans in, whispers, “Haven’t you ever wanted to fuck on an exam table?”

“I guess I’ll have to cross this one off my bucket list,” Danny returns.

“Come on. I know how to get in.”

The back door is unlocked because Scott’s left it that way, and Derek, one hand around Danny’s wrist, heads inside. Into the main exam room, where he flips on the light. 

Danny takes it in, smirking at the table, then says, “You still haven’t kissed me yet.” He reaches for Derek’s shoulders, trying to pull him in.

“I’m afraid he’s not much of a kisser,” Stiles says, coming from the shadows. “Too much _teeth_.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence before Scott cracks up. Isaac, too, and Derek wants to punch them all in the face.

“Really? A teeth joke? That’s the best you came up with?” Derek asks. 

“Dude, no, that was _perfect_. You completely missed your cue.” When Derek raises an eyebrow, Stiles give him an _are you stupid_ look. “You were supposed to break out the pearly whites. Come on, I set you up so good! That was the _perfect one-liner_.”

“Yeah, for Horatio Caine,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, can someone tell me what the hell is going on here?” Danny asks. “This is a shitty prank, guys. Really shitty.” Scott and Isaac have the decency to laugh a little quieter.

Derek shakes his head. “Not a prank.”

“I’m sorry to say, Danny,” Stiles says, pulling out a long knife, “that this is very much not a prank. You’ve killed people, man. That’s not cool. We can’t let you keep doing it.”

Danny pales, backing away until he hits the exam table. “I didn’t mean to, I swear. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“You’re a sex demon,” Stiles tells him. “And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You’re an incubus,” he corrects.

“I’m a _what_?”

“Incubus,” Stiles answers. “Historically, they fly into maidens’ rooms at night and get them pregnant, but this is the modern day and age. Apparently, you go clubbing instead. And like men. Trust me, we’re as surprised as you are. Not about the men thing. The murder thing. Because that’s kind of a sticking point for us. The men thing isn’t—”

“Who’s ‘us’?” Danny asks, looking at all of them.

Stiles smirks, says, “You could say we’re a loosely-formed group of individuals—“

“A pack, if you will,” Scott adds, and some strange muscle inside of Derek’s chest finally relaxes.

“Yes, a _pack_ ,” Stiles agrees. “Because some of us are werewolves.” He gives Derek a stern look, and Derek rolls his eyes, makes them flash red, and lengthens his teeth.

“You picked the wrong guy to hit on at the bar,” Scott says off Danny’s shocked expression. But then Danny seems to get it.

“Wait, so you’re _all_ werewolves?”

“All but me!” Stiles says with a little grin.

“Okay, but the rest of you. And Jackson? Lydia?”

“Jackson, yes, well, after a brief stint as a mindless murdering lizard monster,” Scott says. “Lydia, not so much. We’re still trying to figure that one out. And Allison’s family hunts us. Or they did, but we’ve basically got that under control.”

Danny looks at Isaac, frowning. “That one girl, Erica. Her too? And Boyd? You all hang out together.”

“Erica’s…not with us anymore,” Scott says. “But Boyd’s one of us.”

“And you’re the leader,” Danny says, looking at Derek.

“We say ‘Alpha’, but that’s the right idea.”

“The problem is, Danny,” Stiles says, “we look after this town for the people who don’t know what waits in the dark. So when something starts killing people, we’re the ones who deal with it. With _you_.”

Danny shrinks a little, hands jamming into his pockets. “So you’re going to kill me for what I did,” he says. “Alright. Go ahead.” 

Derek looks to Stiles, not even sure why he’s doing it, but this isn’t exactly how he’d imagined this going.

“You can put up a bit of a fight, you know,” Stiles says, shoving his hands in his pockets awkwardly.

“What’s the point? I know what I’ve done and I can’t control it, so this is what needs to happen. If I could have done it myself, I would have. I suppose I should be thanking you.” 

At that, Derek hesitates. The situation feels wrong. There’s supposed to be a fight of some kind and Danny’s supposed to be evil. This isn’t right.

No one’s going for it, so Derek sighs, says, “Alright, why don’t you sit down and explain all of this to us. For our records, at least.” Danny hops up onto the exam table, looks around at them. Scratches his head.

“It happened for the first time two weeks ago, I think. I was planning to go out, and I just remember being, like, _really_ hungry after practice, but I had a burger and it didn’t go away, which was weird. So whatever, I went out, and it was _different_. Usually, I can pick someone out pretty quick, dance a bit, and if they’re not weird, maybe something will happen. But it seemed like everyone was staring at me. In a good way, I think. Guys were tripping over themselves to buy me drinks, and it’s not like it’s never happened before, but not like _that_. So I started dancing with this guy, and it just made me hungrier, and somehow, I knew he could fix that. I just touched him and suddenly he was willing to do whatever I wanted. Then we were outside and I went in to kiss him, and suddenly I felt _way_ better. I felt _great_. And then I realized that he was dead, so I ran. I thought he’d had a heart attack or something. And then it happened again. And again. I didn’t mean to kill anyone. It just happened. When I kiss them, they end up dying, and I don’t know how to stop it.” 

There’s a stunned silence for a moment, then Stiles says, “Dude, you’re like Sam Winchester times _a million_.” 

“I don’t know who that is,” Danny tells him with an annoyed look. 

“That’s a crying shame,” Stiles tells him honestly, but Scott cuts him off before he can say anything more.

“Are we still killing Danny? Because it’s not my _favorite_ plan, but we should maybe get on that. If that’s what we’re doing. If not, that’s cool. I kind of like Danny. Even with the murder thing.”

Derek looks at Scott, then back at Danny. “Last weekend, you fed two nights in a row. Were you hungry the second night? Or was it accidental?”

“Last weekend? I mean, that Friday wasn’t as bad as the first, and Saturday, it just happened on accident. I didn’t need to.”

“And tonight?”

Danny shrugs. “I mean, I was the normal level of horny, but the other feeling wasn’t quite as strong. I just don’t know how to stop it.” 

“If you can learn to control it, we might not need to kill you,” Derek says after a moment of deliberation.

“And how, exactly, is he going to learn _that_? Are we volunteering?” Stiles asks. He looks Danny up and down, then says, “Because I for one would like to volunteer as tribute.” 

Derek glares at him, holds up a hand. “No way in hell. You’re human. You stand no more chance than the other three.”

“What are you saying, then?” Stiles asks. His gaze shifts to Scott and Isaac. 

“No. Not them. We don’t know how strong he is. They might not be able to stop in time.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You know, I’d call you a martyr, but I don’t think making out with Danny is exactly a _sacrifice_.” 

Derek doesn’t snap at him, restrains himself from that much, because Stiles doesn’t _get_ it. That Derek doesn’t want to do it. Not because of the possible death aspect, because he’s come to terms with the idea that he’s probably going to die young, but he doesn’t like the idea of doing this. Of kissing anyone, having to touch them.

Still, he’d never in a million years ask anyone else to do it.

“Is this really happening?” Isaac asks, looking embarrassed. “Should we go?”

“I don’t care,” Derek answers sharply. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“I’m out,” Scott says quickly, and Isaac agrees. They look at Stiles.

“Someone should make sure no one dies,” he says quickly. He’s blushing and Derek can smell him well enough. It may not work the same on werewolves, but Danny’s pheromones or whatever must be affecting the only human in the room. Because he’s _interested_ in staying, to say the least. Honestly, Derek doesn’t care what he does as long as he’s not trying to do this himself. 

Derek ignores his presence in the room, stepping forward towards Danny, who makes a space for him between his legs. Danny’s staring at his mouth, and he reaches out, wraps a hand around the back of Derek’s neck.

It’s happening. That’s clear. It’s happening, and he’s fine with it. Really. He's fine.

Derek is the one who goes in for it. His mouth knows what to do, even if he doesn’t like it. Danny’s taking to the kiss eagerly, mouth open against his, and that’s when Derek starts to feel it. Like something’s reaching down through his throat to his belly button and trying to tug him inside out. It’s weird, to say the least. Not quite painful, but not great either. And he can feel himself healing, that itchy buzz, and that’s how he knows that this is too fast.

“ _Slow down_ ,” he says against Danny’s lips. “Pay attention. Do you feel it?”

Danny hums an _mmhmm_ into his mouth, but he’s going a little slower this time. The tug is a little more gentle, and Derek can heal fast enough to keep up with it. Carefully, he slips a hand into Danny’s hair, another to his collarbone, thumb coming to rest against his throat. The drain picks up a little, and Derek pulls away again.

“Don’t get distracted. Feel it. It’s coming from you. You can control it.” He can feel Danny frowning when he goes back in, but the pull lessens. A little at first, and then more. When it gets to the point where it’s negligible, Derek goes in a little deeper, gets a little rougher because he can tell that that’s what Danny’s into, and there’s a quick surge of that tug, but Danny stabilizes. 

When Danny slips a hand down to the small of his back, Derek pulls away. Danny’s irises are glowing a deep, rusty orange in a thin ring around his wide pupils, like an eclipse. 

“That was _amazing_ ,” Danny says, breathing hard. Derek backs away. There’s an instinct to wipe his mouth, but he doesn’t. 

A few feet away, Stiles makes a choked noise, reminding Derek that he’s there. His mouth is hanging open and he _reeks_ like teenage lust. 

“Go take a cold shower, Stiles,” Derek tells him, rolling his eyes. It’s not the kid’s fault, really; he’s young and Danny’s probably emitting an aura of arousal, but Stiles will be embarrassed about it later. 

Stiles nods, frowns, points at the door like he’s asking permission to leave, then just goes. 

“I think we just made a few of his dreams come true. He’s going to be making deposits in the spank bank for a _while_ ,” Danny says with a little smirk. 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you put away the pheromones, Lothario? It’s a miracle he could _breathe_ in here.” 

“I don’t think that was all me. He has a weird boner for you, man. Any time I bring you up, he looks like he wants to punch someone in the face. With his dick. Can’t really blame him.” Danny gives him a pretty obvious once-over. “If that’s what kissing you is like, I’d love to make a night of it.” Well, that’s awkward.

“Not happening. No offense, just…” Derek shakes his head, wincing a little. 

Danny’s eyes narrow. “You’re straight? My bad. I’ll lay off. That was just… _damn_.” 

“If you need to feed again, you know where I live. We can work on your control, see if we can get you to the point where it’ll be safe for your partner. In the meantime, this should go without saying, but don’t try anyone else. I might be able to teach my betas to handle it, but you can’t be with a human until you can control this.” 

“So basically, I have to be celibate until I can get the hang of it?” Danny makes a face at the idea.

“Pretty much. Consider it a learning experience. I’m sure that by the time you learn to control yourself, you’ll be able to seduce Mitt Romney, but for now, keep it in your pants.” Derek almost wishes that something like that would be a problem for him, but then he remembers that it was once, and he feels a little sick. 

Danny salutes with a lopsided smile. “Yes, Sir!” He hops off the exam table easily.

“Get out of here. I’ll have Scott text you my number later.”

“Are you all going to tell me the details of how everyone I know became a werewolf at some point?” Danny asks, stopping on his way to the back door. 

“Ask Scott. Or Stiles. They’ll give you the whole story, I’m sure,” Derek says. He feels very tired suddenly, and it shouldn’t be from Danny, but maybe it is. Maybe it had been more than he’d thought. 

“Is anyone else still here? I kind of need a ride.” Danny says it like he’s just realized it and he’s embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. Derek listens, hears Stiles in his Jeep in the parking lot. 

“Stiles hasn’t left yet. If you go out that door, go left around the building. You’ll find him.”

“That’s pretty cool. The hearing thing. You can do other stuff?”

“Stiles will explain. You better hurry if you don’t want him to leave.” Derek knows he’s being short and snappish, that Danny is a little taken aback by it as he leaves, but his body feels heavy and strange, and he wants to be alone. To go _home_ and be alone. Maybe Isaac went to spend the night at Scott’s. He does that sometimes. Derek might get to be alone. That's what he needs. Just the _idea_ of having to talk to anyone is exhausting.

 

Thankfully, Isaac’s not there. He’d texted, apparently, said that he’s not planning on coming home tonight so Derek can have the apartment. There’d been a winking face. Derek kind of wants to smack him upside the head, but he’s not here. No one’s here. _Thank God_.

He strips on his way to bed, tossing clothes haphazardly around his room. His body feels better, healing up quickly, but his head is another matter. Somehow, his brain’s been tied up in knots. He wants to pull it out of his head and untangle it, but he settles for lying back against the covers and pillows on his bed and trying to focus on the rhythm of his breathing. Something’s bothering him, he knows it, but he also knows that he’s keeping himself away from it, purposefully avoiding whatever it is, which is maybe for the best. 

By the time he’s able to stop thinking about not thinking about whatever it is, he realizes that his fingers are drumming softly against the skin beneath his navel, just above where his pubic hair starts. When he thinks about it, it’s been less than a week since he’s last gotten off. It’s a little weird to be thinking about doing it again, what with everything that’s happened tonight, but maybe he’s not completely immune to whatever buzz Danny gives off. It’s certainly possible. And denying his body what it wants is pointless. 

His dick is already taking an interest, even though he hasn’t thought about anything in particular. Unusual, but less unusual for the past month or so. Getting off has been easier lately. Now that he at least thinks about _something_. Even if it’s not particularly vivid. Just himself in a room, and the other man (because he’s become sure that it’s a man) in the shadows, just watching. 

Derek sends himself there, but it’s a little hard to focus on. The room keeps warping, shifting, and after a minute of trying to lock it down, he gives up and lets his brain go where it wants.

It’s not one of the best decisions he’s made, considering where he ends up. 

It’s blocky and grey at first, but after letting himself sink in a little, it becomes clear that it’s Stiles’ room. Realizing that makes him snap out of it, but he can ever so slightly feel his pulse in his dick, so he lets himself go there. It’s just because he’s spent too much time there recently. And it’s a safe place in his mind, for whatever reason. 

But it’s definitely Stiles’ room. The wall is covered in papers for the case still, and the overhead light is on, and he’s laying on Stiles’ bed. Naked. Which is a weird thing, but his body apparently likes it because he twitches a little and scents pre-come. It’s a comfortable enough place, actually, because even though it’s not _his_ , he feels a strange power balance, unusual for someone else’s space. Sighing into it, he wraps his hand around his cock and gives a sharp tug. Hisses because it’s _good_. Good enough that he doesn’t stop pumping himself in his fist.

It becomes clear very quickly that the main aspect of his other fantasy is still intact: he’s not alone. In the desk chair, sitting calmly, is Stiles. And that’s _weird_ , and wrong, and a bit disgusting on Derek's part, but he’s not actually doing anything. He's not engaged; fully-clothed, completely still, just sitting there, watching. His feet are grounded on the floor, a bit wider than shoulder-width, and he _smells_. Like he did earlier: innocent lust. 

Derek knows he needs to take his hand off his dick _now_ and go take a shower or something, but he doesn’t. He tightens his grip, jerks a little faster, and the too-good pressure makes him throw his head back. It’s wrong, it’s so wrong, but he’s getting off on the fact that Stiles is just _watching_ him, that he _wants_ to do more, but he knows that he can’t do anything. That he won’t even _try_ , won’t even touch himself, even though it must be _awful_ because he just reeks of frustrated arousal. Derek groans at that, bites his free hand with just-too-sharp teeth. 

 _Fuck_ , it’s too good, too wrong, and when Stiles sucks his lower lip into his mouth, it’s over. There’s a noise in the back of Derek’s throat, his back is arching tightly, the hot splatter on his stomach and chest as pure pleasure skates through him like adrenaline or rage or the shift. 

It takes a while to get his breath back, longer to retrieve his mind. 

And then he stares up at the ceiling and swears for a while. Because this is _bad_. Stiles is sixteen and untouched and too good, and Derek can ruin all of that. Easily. 

But, thinking about it, he doesn’t _want_ to. He doesn’t _actually_ want to have sex with Stiles. The thought makes his mouth curl and stomach twist. But if he doesn’t want Stiles, Stiles is safe. He’ll be okay. Because it’s not even really the fact that it’s Stiles, just the fact that there’s this person who wants him but won’t do anything about it, wouldn’t know how to even if he could convince himself to. That he wants someone dangerous, the way Derek did once, but that nothing will happen to him because Derek will never touch him. Stiles will one day learn that he’s beautiful and it won’t be the noose around his neck. He’ll find someone who will love him entirely, who will have so much love to give him that he’ll be able to swim in it, who will love him for the love he has in him, who will show him that his guilt is what makes him pure instead of corrupting him. 

It makes Derek’s chest ache to think about it, makes him want to cut off his limbs and escape the reality of existence for a while. 

It’s a long, long time before he can sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dubious consent -- character with very limited sexual interest in anyone engages in contact with someone despite not wanting to, references to sexual harassment of Derek, references to sex-related nightmares of Kate,   
> Serial murder -- several men are murdered with the implication that they're gay, though the idea of a hate crime never comes up because that's not what it is  
> Suggested abuse of Adderall


	3. His edited heart was her favorite work of art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Alan Lastufka and Tom Milson's "Can't".  
> But seriously, I got emotional just writing this chapter. It's like 90% Derek feels and 10% Stiles feels and I'm sorry, okay?  
> I'm sorry. 
> 
> Warnings at the end.

When Derek wakes up, he has a text from the Sheriff to meet him for breakfast. 

It’s a chain diner, but it’s not too busy. Far enough from most of the neighborhoods to avoid the majority of the breakfast rush. Derek doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that it’s empty enough for them to take the back corner booth. The one that gives them a view of the whole restaurant. The paranoid seat.

“So how did it all go?” the Sheriff asks in a hushed voice after the waitress fills his coffee mug. “And don’t tell me where you hid any bodies because I _do not_ need to know that.” 

“No bodies,” Derek says, burning his hands on his own coffee. “We didn’t need to kill anyone. It turns out it was a friend of the pack. No one really wanted to kill him, and we’ve figured out how to keep him from killing anyone.”

The Sheriff raises an eyebrow. “How’re you managing _that_?”

“A human can’t survive a feeding, but someone with a healing factor can. I’m teaching him how to control it. Problem solved.” Derek stares at the menu, avoiding the look the Sheriff’s giving him. 

“How, exactly, does he _feed_?” There’s some force behind that, but Derek’s not sure why. It makes him uncomfortable in any case. 

“Like most of us: through the mouth.” That sounds worse than it is, he realizes, and follows it up. “Mouth to mouth, I mean.”

One of the Sheriff’s elbows lands on the table. “So you’re just going to make out with this monster kid whenever he gets hungry?”

“Just until he learns how to control it.” Derek looks up, frowns. “I figured out how to deal with the problem without killing anyone, and I’m pretty sure kissing a minor isn’t illegal. Why are you angry?”

“Does— Who all knows about this little plan of yours?” _That_ seems like a non-sequitur.

“Everyone. Isaac, Scott, and Stiles were all there, and they agreed that it was the best for everyone’s safety because I can heal faster than anyone else. The whole pack probably knows by now. Why?”

The Sheriff just sighs, shaking his head.

“Look, I don’t _like_ the situation. _At all_ ,” Derek says sharply. “But I didn’t think it was right to kill a high school student just because I don’t like the idea of _kissing_ him. It’s not really any effort on my part anyway. I can deal with a little discomfort if it means no one else has to die.”

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” the Sheriff says, locking him in his gaze.

Derek shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just a body. Bodies heal. After a while, it’s like nothing ever happened.” He’s thinking of Peter, unfortunately, and of the wound in his arm and the near-disembowelment not too long ago and that time he broke his collarbone because his mom told him not to jump off the porch and he did it away. And she’d given him a stern look, but she’d reset the bone and made him hot chocolate, combing his hair back while he drank it. He doesn’t drink hot chocolate much because the right kind makes him feel phantom fingers running across his scalp.

“What about minds, huh? Do those heal up the same?” There’s something in his look, like _he_ ’s thinking about Peter. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s thinking about his wife, of the thoughts and guilts Stiles has to put away before he goes to sleep at night. Or maybe he’s thinking about Derek. Maybe what he means is Derek’s family, which he knows _nothing_ about, so that sad look needs to go somewhere else. He has _no idea_ how wrong it would be to pity Derek for it. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, jaw tightening, “they do. If you give them enough time. And it’s _fine_. I can handle it.”

The Sheriff narrows his eyes. “So tell me, then: is almost seven years enough time? Is it _like nothing ever happened_?” The spoon in Derek’s hand twists and bends as he closes his fist. His nails have gone sharp, and he sinks them into his palms to calm down. It wouldn’t be a good idea to throw the Sheriff across the room. But he doesn’t _understand_.

“ _What makes you think you have the right to ask me that_?” Derek asks through gritted teeth. 

“I know what it looks like when someone’s punishing himself for something they didn’t do, alright?” Maybe he’s more perceptive that Derek had thought, but that doesn’t make it right. “I see it _every single day_. Why I thought I could help _you_ when I can’t even help my own son, I don’t know, but you need to understand, Derek, that surviving _does not make it your fault_. Okay?” Oh, how _little_ he knows. “Some crazy bitch did a horrible, horrible thing, and it’s tragic and awful, but it’s not on _you_. It’s on _her_. The fact that you weren’t there doesn’t mean you were _supposed_ to be. It’s a gift. You’ve saved _countless_ lives, and you couldn’t have done any of that if you had died that day. So _stop blaming yourself_.” 

Derek snorts, claws sinking further into his palms. “You don’t even _know_. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He has to bite his tongue to keep his teeth in check, to stop himself from yelling or turning or both.

“Yeah? Then _tell me_.”

It’s an open invitation, but Derek’s not going to take it, not in a million years. That would be stupid because the Sheriff would lock him up or, worse, realize just how much his kindness has been wasted on someone like Derek. Telling him would be suicide.

“It _was_ my fault,” he hears himself saying. “Kate Argent couldn’t have done it without me.” _Fuck_. He needs to work on his impulse control. He’ll have plenty of time for that, since the Sheriff is going to arrest him or, at the very least, isolate him from his pack for their protection. Because he’s _dangerous_.

The Sheriff’s face falls into something between confusion and realization. “What do you mean?”

 _Really_? Isn’t it obvious? It _feels_ like the most obvious thing, his stupidity. 

“Don’t you think it’s kind of strange that eleven people, eight of whom were werewolves, couldn’t escape a little _fire_? That the only person who was there and managed to survive wasn’t even _inside_? Because Peter’s burns were from trying to get _in_. Not out. Didn’t that seem _suspicious_ to you?”

“Arson said it was electrical,” the Sheriff says, his voice sounding oddly distant. “They were thorough.”

“So thorough that they didn’t notice that all of the doors were locked. From the _outside_. But _some crazy bitch_ can’t just _will_ the doors locked, can she? But then, she wouldn’t need to. Not if she had a key. Now, I wonder who could have possibly given her _that_.” 

The Sheriff shakes his head. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you would do that. Not to your family. Your pack. You couldn’t have, you were only sixteen—“

“Yeah. I was. Sixteen and awkward and lonely, and I gave everything I had to the first pretty face who looked my way. She didn’t even have to _ask_ , did you know that? I just _gave_ it to her, dad. I thought it was _romantic_.” 

( _Just like that, he’s back there, to that moment where he fucked everything over._

_That night, in her bed after they’d fucked (he’d called it making love at the time, but he can’t think those words anymore without wanting to claw his skin off), he’d fished his house key out of his jeans pocket and told her that he didn’t want to have to sneak around anymore, that he was ready to tell his family, that he loved her and they would too, that he’d do anything for her, tear the moon out of the sky for her, and she’d taken the key from him, smiled so sweetly, and said, “Derek, honey, when have I ever asked you for anything at all?”_

_And she never did._

_She never had to._ )

Derek wipes his face because it’s wet somehow—the ceiling must be leaking, they should really fix that—and he wants to curl up and die somewhere, anywhere. But his face is still wet, and that’s when he realizes that he’s _crying_. 

He hasn’t cried once in seven years. 

A couple of times, he’d come close, but only for his family. Not for himself. He’s never let himself be selfish like this. Derek doesn’t _get_ to cry for himself; he hasn’t earned the right to have any self-pity. 

“Hey, here,” the Sheriff says, handing him a napkin. 

Derek looks at it, takes a deep, deep breath, and makes himself stop. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and he’s fine. Just fine. 

It’s a pleasant day. The coffee’s pretty good. Just the right temperature for drinking now, actually. It tastes _great_. 

“Sorry, what were we talking about?” Derek asks, very casual, over the rim of his mug. The Sheriff looks at him with wide eyes, mouth open. Concern leaches out of his every pore, sickly sweet and nauseating. Derek blinks at him, trying not to inhale. He keeps the coffee near his face to mask the smell.

“You’ve never talked to someone about any of this, have you?”

Derek tries to smile, but it comes out something like a grimace. “There aren’t many werewolf-friendly therapists in the business.” It’s not a _good_ joke, but he’s not at the top of his game for some reason.

“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t have to bring that part of it up, then.” The Sheriff has that set to his eyebrows that means he’s made up his mind about something and he’s not taking _no_ for an answer. “Because you’re on leave. As soon as I get to the station, I’m making it official. If you don’t complete hours with a licensed therapist, you can’t come back to work.”

“I’ll just quit, then.”

Derek doesn’t do well with ultimatums. There’s always a third option. 

The Sheriff shrugs. “If that’s what you _really_ want to do, I won’t _stop_ you. But I can make you miserable, for sure. I can rescind Isaac Lahey’s emancipation and make people wonder why a sixteen year old boy is _living_ with you. Even if nothing comes of it, you’ll have the department suspicious of you for the rest of your life, and _let me tell you_ , the parking tickets _do_ add up. _But_ if you do it, if you _try_ , then I’ll never ask you anything again. I won’t ask you to protect my son, even though by _my_ count, you’re at least one behind on the life-debts. I won’t ask you for anything.”

Derek grinds his teeth. He doesn’t react well to _threats_.

“I just want to help you, Derek. I want you to be happy. And I don’t think that’s possible as long as you’re carrying this. The only person who blames you for that fire is _you_ , and it’s time you let that go.” Derek glares at him, eyes flashing red for just a second. “Come on, son. What would your parents want you to do? Do you _really_ think they’d want you to wrap yourself up in guilt and self-loathing for the rest of your life? Because as a parent, I can _promise_ you, that’s the _last_ thing I want for my son. So I’m asking you, _please_ just talk to someone. If not for you or for me, for _them_.” 

There’s no way to suddenly disappear from the world, but he needs to, because all of this _hurts_. Everything he’s saying makes Derek ache, and it feels like he’s coming apart right now. He needs to be alone so he can hold himself together before it’s too late to find all the pieces. It’s better if no one sees how loosely he’s been held together in the first place. 

The worst part is, he knows he’s being manipulated; the Sheriff is making him do what he wants, but Derek’s going to agree anyways because _apparently_ , he can be played like a fucking _harp_. 

“This doesn’t mean you’ve won something here,” Derek says. “Talking to someone doesn’t mean I’ll forget what I’ve done. Don’t think you can absolve me of something I’m guilty of. That’s not how it works.”

The Sheriff sighs, relaxing. “It’s not about _winning_. I just want you to be happy. I care about you, Derek. And I’m not the only one.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Isaac’s dependent on me. There’s a _difference_.”

“Son,” the Sheriff says, holding him in place with a look, “I would give anything to make you understand what you’re really worth. You _matter_ to people. More people than you know. They care about you. I just wish you could see that.” 

His pulse is steady; he believes every word he’s saying.

That’s not the kind of thing Derek can easily shrug off or deal with. There’s a difference between being _complimented_ , which he can deflect easily enough, and _this_. Whatever it is. A bunch of stupid words that make him wonder if maybe there’s a tiny bit of something okay left in him, which is _terrifying_. If there is, even just a minuscule shard of goodness, then it’s a weakness. It’s the crumbling mortar between the bricks; apply pressure in the right place, and the whole wall falls down. If there’s anything left in him that’s worth saving, it’s something someone could use against him, and Derek doesn’t like the idea of someone pointing out his Achilles heel, the one remaining place to stick the knife in and _twist_. 

It’s worse, too, because the Sheriff is someone he respects, something between a friend and a mentor ( _and a caregiver_ ); Derek wants to believe him. 

“I’ve got to go. Isaac. Have to pick him up from Scott’s. Here,” he says, throwing some bills on the table, and then he’s out of there.

 

Isaac’s not home when he gets back. 

Derek stands in the kitchen for a moment. Then sits on the couch. Then paces along the length of the living room. Goes upstairs. Sits on his bed. Gets up. 

When he realizes that he can’t stop moving, he goes for a run. 

It’s a couple miles to the woods, and then he strips off his clothing and just _goes_. 

 

Hours and hours pass before he shifts back, re-dresses, heads home. His body is tired and his mind is clear, and he wants nothing more than to sleep, so he does. 

 

Derek wakes up after noon the next day, starving. Isaac’s downstairs in the kitchen, making a sandwich.

“You look like you just rose from the dead,” he says, smirking.

“ _Not_ funny. Food?”

“Easy stuff in the freezer,” he says, laying the top piece of bread down. “By the way, the rest of the pack’s coming over later. Physics test tomorrow. That okay?”

Derek nods, feeling like going non-verbal until he can get some food in his belly.

“Cool. The Sheriff dropped by last night. Left some papers. Over there,” Isaac says, nodding at the corner counter. “He said he was worried about you. Anything wrong?”

“No,” Derek says, tearing open a frozen food box. “‘M fine. Just took me a little longer to heal after Danny than I thought.” 

Isaac grins lecherously. “Yeah? I _bet_. Any time you want him to come over, just give me the word and I’ll sexile myself at Scott’s. Good that you’re getting some. I probably wouldn’t have guessed _Danny_ , but he’s not bad. For a lethal sex demon.” Isaac winks at that, and Derek gives him a glare that’s basically equivalent to punching him in the face. 

( _He doesn’t smack Isaac like he might smack Boyd, like his family had smacked him. The way a wolf nips at their cubs. He’s learned to be gentle with Isaac and convey a lot with eye contact._ )

This particular look gets across _just fine_. 

“Danny is not my fuck buddy or my booty call. Our relationship does not extend beyond what he needs to not kill anyone. We clear?”

“ _Crystal_. You only screw around with Danny for the good of humanity.” He smirks at that, and it’s annoying as fuck, but Derek gets that it’s just a joke. That’s better than nothing.

“Go eat your sandwich,” Derek tells him, glaring.

“Oh, and by the way, when Stiles acts super awkward tonight, don’t worry about it. He came over to Scott’s after the whole business with Danny and freaked out because he feels really guilty about watching you two play tonsil hockey and said, and I quote, that you made your ‘ _boner-sniffing face_ ’ so he’s afraid for his life. He’ll get over it when he figures out that no one can actually _smell_ a boner unless it’s the full moon, but I say we let him panic for a little while longer.”

“I have a ‘boner-sniffing’ face?” Derek asks with a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

Isaac throws up his hands. “Don’t ask me. I’ve never popped a stiffy around you, so I couldn’t tell you. You’d have to ask Stiles. But I imagine it’s a little bit like your ‘imminent doom’ face. Or your ‘unending pain’ face.”

Derek scowls at him. “None of those are real things. Go do some homework or something.”

“Hey, I was just giving you the heads up. Don’t shoot the messenger.” As Isaac walks away, the microwave dings. Derek takes out his Hungry Man and doesn’t wait for it to cool. His mouth burns at first, but it heals, and the food feels good in his belly. 

As he eats, he wanders over to the papers the Sheriff left. 

They’re all names, numbers, and addresses of therapists. The note on top says _Put this together for you. All of them are covered by the department. The ones I’ve marked specialize in grief counseling. Remember_ — _you can only get out of it what you put in. And just because you’re on leave doesn’t mean you can’t come over for dinner sometime, if you’d like. Don’t be a stranger._  

Derek looks through the names, about twenty, some with little notes like _Jim says he’s really nice_ and _Her office smells like mothballs_. A part of him sees wasted effort, some stranger who’ll just want to get paid for his time, but it’s a shrinking part. It would be nice to talk to someone he can actually lay things on, to not have to be the emotional rock the others can lean on. Because he’s crumbling. And he _likes_ having his job. The sooner he can go back, the better. Now that he’s used to having things to do, the idea of having to fill his time sounds awful.

“Put some headphones on,” Derek tells Isaac as he passes through the living room.

“Leave a window open if you’re going to jerk off,” Isaac says as he pulls his headphones out of his pocket. “When I came home yesterday, the whole upstairs smelled like sex. It was traumatizing.” Derek winces; the only shower is upstairs, so it’s not like Isaac doesn’t have a reason to be up there. It’s his space just as much as Derek’s.

“I’m not jerking off, anyway. I just want some privacy.”

Isaac raises a disbelieving eyebrow, but he turns on his iPod, and Derek can hear the music pretty clearly from where he stands. Headphones are a great invention. When he was younger, they’d had thick walls, nearly soundproof, which he’d been thankful for when he’d hit puberty, but nothing beats a pair of headphones for blocking out sound.

 

He calls about half of the names on the Sheriff’s list, talks to a few of the doctors, and sets appointments with fewer. Two for later in the week, one for tomorrow. Still, he knows he’ll probably stick to the first one he talks to, unless she’s really awful, because he doesn’t like the idea of talking to more people than he absolutely needs to. But the Sheriff wouldn’t have recommended anyone terrible. He’d have no reason to. So Derek will trust. 

After Derek’s done, when he listens for it, he can hear Isaac’s music still. He looks at the window. 

No. There’s no need. He got off less than forty-eight hours ago. It’s not necessary. 

A moment later, he finds himself getting up and opening the window. Just for some fresh air. No reason, really. And if he checks that his door is closed all the way, it’s just habit. He likes to be alone. 

Somehow, he ends up unbuttoning his pants without thinking about it, and at that point, he just kind of gives up the fight. Isaac seemed okay with it, or at least resigned to it. He’ll probably assume Derek did it anyway. Might as well get something out of it. 

Derek shoves his jeans and underwear down his thighs, pulls his shirt up to just under his arms. Idly, he tweaks a nipple, inhales sharply. It’s probably just the anticipation that’s getting him hard, which is a new and weird thing for him, but he doesn’t want to think about it too much. Doesn’t want to think at all, actually. And he doesn’t have to. With his hand on his dick, _not thinking_ is surprisingly easy. 

It’s fast, terrifyingly fast. One second, it’s the scent memory of Stiles’ room, Stiles’ arousal, just _Stiles_ from a distance, and he’s fucking into his fist, hips arching off the bed, and coming and coming and coming. 

And then he just lays there, hazy and half-delirious because there’s less shame this time, less guilt. 

His fear is that there won’t be any guilt next time. And there’s going to be a next time. He knows it. It’s not a _good_ thing, but he can enjoy this now in a way he barely even remembers. What it means of him, what it makes him as a person, that’s dark enough to chill the pit of his stomach, but he’ll do it again because he’s weak and horrible and he hasn’t been good for a long, long time.

 

Isaac gives him a knowing look when he sees that Derek’s taken a shower, but Derek flips him the bird.

 

The teenagers come over later that night, and Derek orders pizza for everyone. It’s weird, actually, because it feels like a real pack, when he thinks about it. Scott had been the one missing piece, and with him, everyone’s connected. Even Danny, now. They must feel it. Maybe not quite the same as Derek does, but they have to feel _something_. Even the humans. The way everyone’s so in-tune with each other now. The way everyone’s unconsciously at ease around each other. 

Even Stiles. 

Who’s not acting weird, actually, so Isaac was wrong about that. It just means that Stiles figured out that Danny’s pheromones were to blame and he’s not really _attracted_ -attracted to Derek. And that’s not a problem. At all. Derek doesn’t have any interest in Stiles _actually_ being attracted to him; it’s only in the fantasy that it matters. It’s not necessary or important or even just something he wants. Derek doesn’t have _any_ interest in touching him in any way, so it’s better that Stiles doesn’t want him. It makes everything easier.

 

They talk physics for a good three or four hours. Derek sits near them, paying half-hearted attention, but he’s soaking everyone in, really. Like basking in the sun on the beach, lazy and unconcerned with the turning of the world. 

After a while, they finish up, and everyone recognizes that it’s a Sunday night, that they should head home. They’re far more reluctant this time, and Derek wonders if any of them know why. If they have any idea. They’ve never been part of a real pack before, not like he has, so they might not be able to put a finger on the feeling.

“Oh, by the way,” Lydia says as she packs up her books, “Wednesday night’s the full moon. You’ll all show up at my place at around seven?”

Everyone seems to agree, and Derek tries not to be pleasantly surprised by it. 

“For the record, you’re all invited to my Halloween bash, too. Friday night. Drinks will be provided. No wolfsbane this time. I promise. Just a _normal_ , teenage party.” 

“You _know_ we can’t get drunk,” Scott says, a little sad about it.

Derek rolls his eyes and says, “Alright, _not that I’m hearing any of this conversation as a representative of the law_ , but it’s possible to get drunk. It’s just difficult. Consider it an exercise in control.”

Isaac sighs loudly. “It’s always _control_ with you. You’re a control freak, you know that?” There’s no venom behind it, just the sound of someone who’s heard the same words too many times.

“Control is what keeps us from killing everyone we know, so _yes_ , I think it’s important. But if you want to discuss the merits of your training instead of listening to what I have to say, then I’d _love_ to.”

“No, no, ignore him,” Scott says quickly. “Tell me how to get drunk.”

“ _Well_ ,” Derek starts, and when everyone presses in closer like he’s telling a story to a gaggle of children, he bites back a grin. “The reason you can’t get drunk is because your healing factor affects your liver. It filters alcohol out of your body too fast for you to get it into your bloodstream. But if you can learn how, you can slow down or even stop the healing process. It takes some practice, but it’s possible. The problem is that when you get to a certain point of inebriation, your control inevitably slips and all of the alcohol ends up in your bladder. So it’s not always pleasant, but it’s doable. If you practice stalling your healing factor this week, you might be able to get a good buzz going. But this is all _purely_ hypothetical, of course, because I don’t condone underage drinking in any form. For the record.”

Stiles snorts at that, but everyone else just sort of smiles and nods. Excitement buzzes around the room.

“I’ve never gotten drunk before,” Boyd says after a moment.

“Oh, _dude_ ,” Stiles says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m making it my mission to get you _at least_ buzzed.”

“Wow, you really lucked out,” Isaac says cheekily. 

Stiles gives him a stern look. “Hey, who do you think taught my boy Scott how to not kill anyone that pissed him off?”

“Uh, _Derek_ ,” Isaac answers.

“What lies have you been feeding them, man?” Stiles asks Derek. “That just isn’t right. You may have broken his phone and beat the crap out of him, but I found his _anchor_. So. Four for me.” 

“Really?” Boyd asks, genuinely surprised.

“I mean, yeah, he’s my best bro. That’s for life. I know him better than he knows himself.” The idiots grin at each other, and Derek longs for that. He’s never had a best friend. Siblings, cousins, that sort of thing, but never a best friend. He has no idea what that must be like. He wants it, but he doesn’t really need it. Alphas don’t get to have best friends anyway. It messes with pack hierarchy. They can have a spouse, a mate, but that’s as close as they can get to a friend. It’s not really the same.

He’s not jealous, just thinking.

 

They leave that night with a palpable sense of contentment, and Derek sleeps easy.

 

The next morning, Derek goes for his usual run.

When he comes back, the apartment still smells like pack even though Isaac’s gone to school, left him alone.

It’s a nice thing to come back to, though. Warm, familiar scents and a lazy morning ahead. His appointment isn’t until two, and he stretches out in the meantime. Gets into the shower, the water a little too hot, and sways in the heat. His sweat washes down the drain, and he relaxes into the stream of water. He’s not planning on doing it at first, but as he soaps himself up, he ends up paying a bit more attention to his groin area than strictly necessary. There’s no way he’s going to do anything about, but then his hand keeps dropping, teasing, until he gives up. 

He thinks of Stiles sitting on the bathroom counter, watching him, and the choked noises he makes echo around the tile. But he’s too sleepy to feel guilty about anything after. He doesn’t put on clothes or dry off all the way, just lays down on his bed in his towel and naps.

 

Derek wakes with barely enough time to get dressed and run out the door.

He’s late, by a minute or two, and only so little because he knows how to follow GPS because it’s a bit outside Beacon Hills, between suburbs. The office is kind of tucked away, innocuous. There’s no big sign that says “ _Welcome, Fuck-Ups_ ” so that’s better than he’d been expecting. 

He signs in, and the secretary smiles when he mumbles an apology for being late. He doesn’t even get to sit down in the little waiting area before a woman comes in from a door on the other side of the room.

“Derek?” she asks, smiling softly. He nods and follows her back into her office. It’s a small room. A desk, neatly kept with an electric kettle on one corner, a few bookcases, a couch (not the kind he’s seen in movies, just a normal couch), and a floor lamp. It smells like a lightly-scented candle, something hypoallergenic. 

“I’m Dr. Marena Torres,” she says, her voice a little deeper, softer. “But if you’re comfortable with it, I’d like you to call me ‘Marena’.” Derek nods. “Would you like to sit? You’re under no obligation to.” 

Derek looks at the couch and, after a second, sits. Marena sits at her desk chair, turned towards him. She takes a clipboard from her desk. 

“So, you said on the phone that your boss recommended you for psychological leave. I get cops in here all the time, some from the city, even. It’s a hard job.”

“The job’s not the problem,” Derek says quickly. She inclines her head, inviting him to go on. “I’m on familiar terms with the Sheriff. He gave me an ultimatum, so here I am.”

“Why did he want you to come?”

Derek shrugs. “I suppose he thinks I have some unresolved issues.” She smiles gently, quirking her eyebrows up. “When I was sixteen, the twenty-four-year-old woman I was sleeping with locked my family in the basement of our house and burned everything down around them. The only other person to survive intact was my sister. My uncle was severely burned and comatose for years before he woke up, went crazy, and killed my sister and everyone else involved in the fire. Everyone but me.” Marena’s eyes widen slightly, and she nods once.

“I guess you’re not fucking around, then,” she says, corner of her mouth twitching. “Good. You’ll get more out of this if you don’t bullshit.”

“I figured as much,” Derek says, shifting in his seat.

“So you told the Sheriff about this and he advised you to talk to someone?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “ _Advised_ isn’t _exactly_ how I’d put it, but basically. I…He had an issue with how I handled a case, and during the course of our argument, I told him that much. And my part in it.”

“And what part is that?”

“Kate, well,” he says, gut twisting in shame, “I gave her the key. She couldn’t have locked them in if I hadn’t.”

Marena gives him a sad smile, smelling like concern. “That must be hard to carry around with you.” Derek shrugs; it’s all he knows. “It’s hard to say out loud, isn’t it?”

“The first time I ever did was to the Sheriff. My sister didn’t even know.” He stares down at his hands.

“Sometimes things don’t come out until it’s the right time. Maybe it wasn’t right until now. That’s okay. Things aren’t often in our control. It’s hard, but we just have to adapt to whatever life throws at us.” 

She’s earnest in that. It’s comforting. Maybe not what she’s saying, but that she believes it. And she’s not annoying, isn’t trying to touch him and hasn’t prodded at him. This could be a good thing.

“I’d like to take down your family history, if you don’t mind. But if there’s something you’d like to talk about, it can wait.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

It’s odd, editing his family and himself for her. He can’t exactly tell her that he grew up in a pack of werewolves, but it’s weird, what he has to alter and what he doesn’t. 

She fills out whatever’s on her clipboard in maybe half an hour, then sets it aside. “So, I just wanted to ask: what would _you_ like to get out of this? Because I’ve seen a lot of guys put on psych leave who have nothing but bullshit and machismo to offer, but you pretty much led with the big one. Why?”

Derek shrugs, thinking about it. “I suppose…I trust the Sheriff. I know him, or I feel like I do, and I trust that he wants me here for the right reasons. He doesn’t have a reason to try to make anything worse, and he has good judgement. And I owe him, I think.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He arrested me once, when they thought I was responsible for Laura’s murder. After, well, it’s hard to explain.” He frowns; there’s no great way to frame it without mentioning Scott getting bitten or all that followed. “I came to know his son and his son’s friends. We were all trying to figure out what happened to Laura, and I ended up spending a lot of time with them. He found me and Stiles, his son, in the middle of it once. It didn’t look good. When the Sheriff found out, he could have taken it _badly_. He didn’t. Offered me a job, actually.”

“In the middle of what? Sex?” It’s not said with any judgement or venom.

Derek shakes his head sharply. “Never. It’s not like that, me and Stiles. We barely tolerate each other, and he’s sixteen, anyway. We were just trying to get through everything. But it could have looked like something else from where the Sheriff was standing.”

She pauses, considering what to say next. “So, you’re here for the Sheriff, then? You must look up to him quite a bit.”

“I guess so. He’s a good man. He always does the right thing. I’m not very good at that.”

Marena frowns. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve made some bad decisions,” he says evenly. It’s an understatement, to say the least.

“Derek, the age of consent in California is eighteen. Now, there are some incredibly immature twenty-year-olds and very precocious twelve-year-olds out there, but the point is that the law protects people who aren’t adults from being forced to make adult decisions. Or it tries to, in any case. I’m not going to say that people don’t think about sex or love until they’re eighteen, but a sixteen-year-old doesn’t have enough world view or experience to be able to tell what’s real or not, what’s _okay_ or not. At that age, there’s no way you could have been able to tell what Kate wanted from you, and _that_ made you easy to manipulate. They weren’t _your_ decisions; they were _hers_.”

Derek sits there, looking at her because her gaze is _intense_ , and he can’t get up and run or fight his way out of this. He has to sit here and take it. He’s strong enough for that. He can do it. Even though what she said is swirling around his head, dark and painful.

“You don’t need to hold onto this blame,” Marena says softly.

“I do,” he says, snapping back to life. “I really do. If I don’t have it, I don’t have anything. I don’t have control of anything. I’ll get carried away by the tide. That’s what happens.”

She cocks her head. “What does that mean?”

“It’s something—“ he frowns, adjusts “It’s something my mother used to tell me when I was young: Everyone has to have an anchor. One thing they can always rely on to keep them grounded. She said we were hers….” He swallows that back, continues, “First, I had my family, then I had Kate, and now there’s just me and what I’ve done. It’s what I have to hold onto.”

“Don’t you think maybe she meant something outside of yourself? A ship can’t be its own anchor, can it? How can that work?”

Derek considers that. “I never thought about it that way.” He knows that Jackson has Lydia, that Isaac has his father, that Scott has Allison, that Boyd had Erica. “But then if it’s not me, what’s my anchor?”

“Well, they’re feelings of blame, aren’t they? Anger?” He nods. “Then _maybe_ it’s still Kate. That’s where the blame lies, that’s who you have every reason to be angry at, and I think that on some level, you know that. And if she was that, your anchor, for you before what she did, what if she still is? What if you haven’t quite let her go yet?”

“Kate’s _dead,_ ” he says through his teeth.

“So’s your family, but you still carry them with you, don’t you?” There’s no arguing with that one; he doesn’t want her to be right, but he’s terrified she is. “Sometimes, we love people who don’t deserve it because we want them to be who we once thought they were.”

He sits inside of himself, tries to piece that together. The idea of loving her still makes him want to vomit, but she’s still _there:_ in the back of his mind, on the back of his tongue, in every hesitation and instinctive recoil. 

“I want her gone,” he says. “I want to be done with her. I don’t want her to have an impact on my life anymore.”

Marena nods, offering half a smile. “I can help you with that.”

 

They arrange to meet three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. She gives him her card to call if he needs her for some sort of emergency. Derek slips it in the back of his wallet, knowing he’ll never use it. 

He leaves feeling like he’s at least halfway doing something, but it’s going to be at least four weeks before he can get back to work. That stings a little, even if there’s a chance he’ll get something real out of it. But he hesitates to think there might be a future where he doesn’t think about Kate. It’s too surreal; he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. The idea that she might still be his anchor makes too much sense for him to feel comfortable in his skin. He needs to find a new anchor and _fast_. But it’s not exactly an easy thing to do.

The best way to find an anchor is to let the moon force the choice, but he would have to drop Kate first, and that’s easier said than done.

 

After his appointment on Wednesday, Derek has to scramble to get something together for the Hunter’s Moon gathering at Lydia’s. 

How he ends up with two chickens and a casserole dish of sweet potato and bacon stuffing in the oven is something of a mystery. He remembers finding the old recipe in the dark recesses of Peter’s laptop, picking everything up at the store and telling Isaac to peel the potatoes, but before he really realizes what’s happening, he’s staring at a bunch of decent-looking (better-smelling) home-cooked food and it’s almost like it just appeared out of nowhere. 

“I think we can call this a possible success,” Isaac says, nodding and smiling. It _is_ a little impressive.

“How are we going to get this all there?” Derek asks after a second. 

The question’s met with resounding silence.

Derek scratches his head, asking, “Why don’t we have tupperware again? I feel like that’s something everyone has.”

“Probably because we were living in a rail station and there was no one to tell us we needed it,” Isaac says. The _no one_ is a loud image, flipping curls over her shoulder with a little smirk that says _I told you so_. 

“I miss her too,” Derek says softly. 

Isaac looks at him, expression soft and open, and nudges him with his shoulder. They lean on each other a little, quiet.

“We need to figure out how to get all of this to Lydia’s. Who has tupperware?”

“We’re going to need more than a little bit of tupperware. What about foil? Do we have that? We could just wrap everything up really good.”

Derek nods. “That could work.”

They do, in fact, have foil. 

However, figuring out how to open in and fix it so that the roll stays in the box is another matter. And then they have to actually _wrap_ everything. It’s not as easy as it looks. Derek feels like one of those fail-hard white people in late-night informercials. There’s probably ten layers in some places, but there aren’t any holes, so that’s something. 

 

Isaac has to sit in the back of the Camaro to hold both chickens in place. Derek drives with one hand steadying the stuffing. He’s trying to be serious about it all, but Isaac’s grinning, and after a while, he is too.

 

They go around back, directed by a text from Lydia. It’s a balancing act — Derek’s got a chicken in one hand, the casserole dish in the other, and Isaac’s holding onto his chicken with care because the foil split at a bump.

The backyard is actually really beautiful. The pool’s lit up, throwing light around the whole backyard, and there are strings of lights strung up across it, around the patio. There’s a large dining table moved outside, the leaf set in, and too many chairs around it. Lydia and the three Argents are laying out a white table cloth. Lydia waves, coming over to them.

“If you go in through the patio doors, the kitchen’s right on your left,” Lydia says, pointing. “You can put all of that down on the counter. Then come back out here because we need to discuss drinks.” 

They go, find the kitchen easily, put everything down. There’s a few desserts, some fresh-baked bread, and some kind of vegetable dish, Derek notices before heading back out.

“Alright,” Lydia says, clapping her hands together. “So, we completely forgot about drinks. Chris was going to go, but then you showed up, so. I’m thinking some white wine for the adults and sparkling cider for the rest of us. How does that sound? Probably three bottles of the first, five of the second. That should do it, don’t you think?” Derek nods because what does he know? He’s not a party planner. But Lydia’s smile is confident as she hands him a few bills and shoos him off. 

 

Derek picks up some beer, too, if only because he can’t picture the Sheriff with a glass of wine.

 

When he gets back, there are a few more cars outside. It looks like everyone, and when he listens, he can hear them all in back. He crosses the front yard with too many bags of clanking bottles, but Scott and Isaac meet him as he’s kicking the latch of the gate open. They take most of the bags off his hands. 

The food is all out on the table already and it looks like everyone’s just finished figuring out seating arrangements. 

The Sheriff gives him a nod. 

“Right on time,” Lydia says happily. She gestures elegantly to the chair at the head of the table. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll take these,” she says, snatching the two bags from his hands. 

A little overwhelmed, Derek goes and sits. That seems to be some sort of signal to everyone else, because suddenly everyone’s taking their seats. Somehow, this puts Stiles on his right, his father next to him, and Scott on his left, with his mother on his other side. At the opposite end of the table sits Victoria Argent, her husband and daughter on either side. She gives Derek a deferential nod. Lydia, Deaton and Danny are on the same side as Stiles and Allison, Boyd and Isaac on the other, but it doesn’t feel separated in any way, even if there’s a rough werewolf-other divide. Everyone looks comfortable enough with each other. 

“So, Lydia and I found some information from Peter’s notes on this whole Wolfsgiving shebang,” Stiles says, “and I believe you’re supposed to give a _speech_ , man.”

Derek knows this. His mother did the same thing every year. There’s a prayer of sorts, an offering, but he doesn’t think he remembers it. And public speaking isn’t exactly his forte. But he’ll give it his best shot. Because he has to. Because it’s his duty.

Standing, he says, “Thank you all for coming. I know that this pack is new and still adjusting, but I appreciate that everyone’s together and no one’s trying to kill each other. _Yet_. I’m not promising anything if I’m going to be sitting next to _this_ kid all night.” He gestures to Stiles, who grins sheepishly, which earns a light chuckle around the table. “I know we’ve had our difficulties getting here, but I think this feels right.” He shrugs. “There’s a thing I’m supposed to say, a blessing, but I’m going to mess it up.” 

“That just makes it special,” the Sheriff says gently. His eyes are warm and it’s the kind of look Derek hasn’t been on the receiving end of since his parents were alive. _Encouraging_. It’s bizarre, but he feels it down to his toes.

Derek nods, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to remember.

After a second, he says, “Here goes nothing.” He sighs, then takes a deep breath. “ _We take this offering of flesh and blood, Nature’s bounty in times of drought and flood. We give our thanks under the Hunting Moon for the stores to ward off the winter soon…_ ” he trails off, trying to remember the other four lines, gives up, continues, “Something something pack unity something something, _when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives_.” 

“That was deep, man,” Scott says, nodding seriously. 

Stiles nods, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, really deep, _Ned Stark_.” He _would_ be the one to catch that. Of fucking course.

“Don’t say a _word_.” 

At that, Stiles just smirks.

“Oh, we gotta do the other thing,” Scott says, getting up. He slides a chicken over to their end of the table. “Have at it,” he says. This, Derek remembers. The second in succession presents the Alpha with the first kill to take their pick. It’s symbolic of respect and whatnot, but these days, it just means that the Alpha gets to have first dibs on a drumstick if they want it. Meanwhile, Stiles is pouring him wine. Derek’s father used to pour his mother’s. If the Alpha has no mate, it falls to a human, usually the closest in the family, to represent the balance between the human and the wild. Stiles must have drawn the short straw, or else Scott pressed him into it, because after this, the two are supposed to be his servers for the rest of the evening. 

Derek will probably enjoy it a little more than strictly necessary, even though he has enough respect for the tradition to not _completely_ abuse it.  

Once Derek takes the first bite, everyone else goes for the food. There’s a _lot_ of it, and it all smells really good. It tastes even better. Someone made mashed potatoes that make Derek close his eyes for a second they’re that good. He’s going to be eating a lot more of those, that’s for sure.

Over all of the eating, everyone’s talking to one another. It’s something like chaos, something like family, like pack. Everyone seems so _happy_ , even though he knows that deep down, they aren’t. But maybe it’s okay. That Lydia’s smile drops sometimes because Jackson’s gone, that Boyd and Isaac sometimes turn at a joke, like they’re trying to catch a third person’s reaction, but Erica’s never there. But everyone has their missing pieces, and maybe that’s why they all fit together. They’re edges are jagged and broken, but they match up that much better for it. 

Derek looks up when Stiles refills his wine glass, meeting the Sheriff’s eye. He smiles like he’s commiserating for something Derek must have let slip onto his face. Derek leans over, behind Stiles, who’s reaching across the table to steal food from Scott. 

“I did what you said,” Derek tells the Sheriff quietly. “Her name’s Marena. I think it’s going to be a good thing for me.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” the Sheriff says with feeling. Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, so he shrugs and sits up straight again. Boyd and Isaac are looking at him with interest; they must have caught what he said. Derek shakes his head at them and takes another bite. 

 

The moon is high when the parents start saying that it’s a school night. The kids plead an hour more at that point on the grounds that being with the pack is a stabilizing sort of thing. Mrs. McCall agrees to let Scott stay, but she says goodbye. The Sheriff’s tired, Derek can see that plain as day, and he lets Stiles stay on the grounds that he find a ride back. Chris seems to want to do the same thing, but Victoria shuts that down quickly. It seems to be partially an attempt to chaperone and partially an instinctual decision. She has good control, Derek notices, but it’s probably better around her own kind. 

Dessert is eaten slowly, in multiple servings. Chris, apparently, makes incredible pie and Derek feels no shame about snagging a second slice. Scott and Stiles steal a couple bites of it anyway. 

 

Derek and Isaac drop Stiles off on their way home. He jogs to the door, throwing up a wave. For a moment, he’s illuminated a strange, ethereal orange by the porch light. The shadows it throws on his face make him look impossibly old, weathered. His eyelashes cast dark arcs under his eyes. 

“Come on, I have a quiz in history tomorrow,” Isaac says. “He’s fine. Let’s _go_.”

Derek returns his attention to the road again, feeling like his organs aren’t quite settling into place right.

 

Half an hour later, he comes all over his hand, face buried in his pillow. A phantom scent hangs in his nose, sharp and sweet. It’s not guilt, but it might be Stiles, and that might as well be the same thing.

 

“Have you slept with anyone since Kate?” Marena asks over a cup of green tea. 

Derek shakes his head. 

“Talk to me,” she says. It’s what she says when he doesn’t go on immediately. She’s more casual than he’d expected, but there’s no illusion that it isn’t what it is. Derek’s thankful for that.

“I can’t. I don’t see people like that any more.” He hesitates, wincing a little. “It used to be worse. I used to get nauseous when people touched me or looked at me wrong. I would get these nightmares. Of her. If I didn’t…” he trails off, checking her to see what he can say. “If I didn’t, uh, _relieve some tension_ , I’d have these terrible dreams. So I do because I have to. Not as often as anyone I know, from what I can tell, but pretty much everyone I know is a teenager, so….I couldn’t think about anything for a long time, but I have been, I guess. More recently.”

She narrows her eyes like she’s trying to see on his face what he’s not saying. “You’re not comfortable with what you think about. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It’s complicated. I don’t like what it means. About me.”

“It might not mean what you think it means,” she tells him gently. “I’m a bit more neutral about you than you are, you know.”

He sighs heavily and says, “It’s not…I don’t have a problem with the fact that it’s a _he_ , even though I’m not sure if before, I was ever interested in men. I can handle that just fine. It’s who it is. It’s wrong.”

“Is it the Sheriff? Because sometimes when you start becoming close to people, your mind has to try out all of the ways it sees them. And even if you are attracted to him, it doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.”

Derek shakes his head. He’s not going to say who it is. He doesn’t need her to know how completely fucked up he is. But maybe she can help him, if he tells her? Maybe she can make it stop?

“It’s Stiles, isn’t it.”

That’s not a question, but Derek nods. “I don’t want it. And I don’t…How did you know?”

“You talk about him pretty often,” she says. “He was my first guess, but I thought it might be easier if I tried the wrong Stilinski so you could just correct me instead of saying it outright.” She smiles, says, “You have an unusual relationship with Stiles. You don’t sing his praises, but you mention him a lot. Casually. Like you’re used to thinking about him. That’s not something you can help.”

“He’s sixteen. He’s never been in a relationship. I don’t think he’s ever even _kissed_ anyone. It feels wrong to think about him that way. In _any_ way. And I would _never_ do anything. I don’t want to have sex with him. I don’t think about him exactly like that, not even when I’m…doing my business. I’m just able to relax enough to do my thing if I think that he’s there.”

“He makes you feel comfortable. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Derek peers at her, frustrated and uncomprehending. “ _There’s nothing wrong with it_? How is there nothing wrong with it? Of _all_ the people I know, he’s the _last_ person I should be comfortable with. He got me _arrested_. There’s _nothing_ he’s done to gain my trust.”

“But he has it anyway.”

“ _That’s_ — It doesn’t make any sense! He’s this smart ass _kid_ who doesn’t have any sense of self-preservation. It’s _annoying_. And he’s _Stiles_. He shouldn’t be that. For me.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” he huffs a sigh, trying to figure out how to explain it. “Stiles has this thing. This circle of people. He has his dad, Scott, and Lydia. Those are the people he cares about. And they haven’t all cared about him enough in return. Lydia will never love him the way he wants, Scott’s drifting towards a new best friend, and his dad doesn’t know what to do with him because his mother is hanging between them. And he’s been…he’s been letting me in a little. I think I’m moving into that circle but I _can’t_. I don’t know what he’d want me for, but if he…Kate messed a lot of things up for me, and I don’t want that to happen to him because he trusts me too much. It’s better for him if he doesn’t. It’s safer to stay at a distance.”

She leans forward, says, “Derek, listen to me: your logic doesn’t work. Yes, Stiles is sixteen like you were. Yes, you’re older and maybe a little wiser than he is. But if, and I’m not saying he does because I have _no_ idea, but even _if_ he loves you the way you loved her, that doesn’t mean that what happened to you will happen to him because of _you_. You’re not Kate, Derek. And the fact that you’re worried that you might be is _proof_ of that. You’re worried about him. You care about him. That’s okay. It doesn’t mean he’ll get hurt. And I don’t think you should try to keep yourself from making friends and developing healthy relationships because of you think something bad will happen.” 

“Why not? Everyone I care about gets hurt. My family, my sister, Jackson, Erica. I can protect him best by keeping him away from me. That’s what I’m doing, and it’s working. Or it will.” He crosses his arms, sitting up. 

She sighs. “I think we should come back to this, okay? You’re shutting down, and that’s a natural reaction, there’s nothing wrong with it, but I think we’ll make more headway another time. But I have something I want to try, alright?” He nods. “Okay, I want you to look at me and tell me that you’re worthy of love.” 

Derek scoffs, rolls his eyes. Adjusts his arms over his chest. “Isn’t that kind of a cliche?” he asks.

“Maybe it is. But I can tell by the fact that you won’t make eye contact with me that it might help you. So I want you to try it.”

When he says it, it’s barely even mumbled and he feels ridiculous.

“That’s good,” she says, nodding. “Now try it again. I want you to look at me this time. I want you to convince me.” 

This time, he looks up at her, tries to play off some sort of confidence, but his throat is bared and he’s pissed at himself because he can’t even _lie_. He’s that much of a terrible excuse for a person.

“Again,” she tells him, leaning forward. And he does. 

Again.

And again.

And again.

And _again_.

Until he loses count of how many times he says it, until the words feel bizarre and too-familiar in his mouth. Until he can look her right in the eye without shying away and say it. Then he nearly yells it because he’s frustrated with himself and with her and because he’s tired of failing.

“Good, that’s really good, Derek,” she says. “Now say it to me three more times, just like that.”

That’s just what he does.

She nods, smiling. “I know it probably feels a little silly and pretty annoying, but it’s important. And I’d like to give you a little homework assignment for this weekend. Now, I’ll have no way of knowing if you did it, but I wouldn’t tell you to if I didn’t think it would help. So I’d like to say it to yourself ten times in the mirror each day.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. _Seriously_. I know positive affirmations aren’t something you’re comfortable with yet, but I think this will help your negative self-image. How many times a day do you think something like ‘wow, I’m so stupid’ or ‘way to go fucking up again’?” He looks away, uncomfortable that she can read him so easily. “That’s what I thought. The goal is to replace those negative thoughts with neutral and positive thoughts. We’re going to work on it, okay? I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think it would help. Alright?”

He nods reluctantly. 

“Good. I think that’s a good place to end for today. How do you feel about that?”

“Alright,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I don’t think I could do any more of that. And I have to prepare for later. I’m chaperoning a party tonight. _Lots_ of fun.” 

She offers him an apologetic smile. “That sucks. I have a younger sister, so been there, done that. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“Yep. At least I don’t have to worry about anyone getting into trouble where I can’t help them, though,” he says, shrugging.

“Amen to that.” He nods in agreement, getting up. “Have fun. And remember your affirmations.” 

As he leaves, she winks at him, the kind of wink the Sheriff gives him: friendly and conspiratorial, like they’re sharing a secret. It’s not the kind of wink he’s used to, but he thinks he appreciates it.

 

Lydia’s is _packed_. 

There are a ton of costumed teenagers all over the place, drinking, going for a just-warm-enough dip in the pool, yelling across the backyard. Derek finds Lydia, dressed in a silky-looking dark blue toga, sequestered in one corner of the patio near the pool house, surrounded by Stiles’ drag queen friends in various costumes. They’re debating mascara in a way that he’s heard her debate choice weaponry, but maybe they’re sometimes the same thing.

“Oh, Derek! I’m so glad you’re here!” she says, waving him over. Nestled in her curled hair, a silver crown with pale pink roses glints in the patio lights.

“I brought beer,” he tells her, lifting the six pack in his hand.

“Cute.” She points, saying, “We have a keg over there, but that actually looks like something other than piss. If you want to save it for yourself, I won’t tell if you won’t.” She winks, and he nods, half-smiling. 

“You’re Stiles’… _friend_ ,” one of the drag queens says. Derek’s pretty sure she’s the one named Fantasia. She’s also taller than him by at least four inches. Probably at least partially due to the heels. Which are _impressive_ , to say the least.

“I didn’t know everyone knew each other,” Lydia says, with a surprised smile.

Derek shrugs. “We met at the club. That night with Danny.”

“You went home with some guy named Danny?” Fantasia gives him a stern look, pursing her lips and shaking her head. “Boy, I _hope_ you know what you’re doing. If you hurt Stiles…let’s just say that whatever happens to his heart? Happens to your package.”

Lydia smiles wide, almost a laugh, with a sly, dark joy in her eyes. 

“It’s not like that. I’m basically his _babysitter_.”

Fantasia frowns. “That’s just a whole other level of wrong. Kinks are kinks, but that boy’s underage and _you_ look like you haven’t been carded since Justin Timberlake thought ramen noodles were a passable hair style. There’s a line between role-play and real life, and a boy as young as him doesn’t know where that line is, you hear me?”

“ _Hey, you_!” The voice, from behind, makes him spin around, just in time to take a crumpled beer can to the chest. “ _I don’t need a babysitter, asshole!_ ” Stiles, on the other side of the pool, is with Scott. And possibly (probably) has been drinking. They look ridiculous, too. Stiles is wearing a giant cereal box and Scott has an abomination of a blond wig on his head, a loaf of bread in his hands.

“Yeah? Let’s ask your dad if he agrees with that!” Derek calls to him, rolling his eyes.

“ _Not fair, dude. Not fair at all!_ ” 

Derek ignores him, turning back to Fantasia. “It’s not what you think. His dad is my boss. He hangs around the station sometimes,” he lies. “And I’m not exactly looking for jail bait.” Across the patio, Scott starts laughing and Stiles, probably figuring it’s about him, badgers him about why.

“Alright then,” Fantasia says, one defined brow arching. “If you say so.”

“Are Isaac and Boyd here?” Derek asks Lydia.

She nods. “Inside, I think.” He turns, going to find them. “Wait!” He stops. “Derek, try to have a little fun. It’s a party. So _party_. You’re no one’s chaperone tonight.” Her look is pretty clear, but he has no interest yet in putting in the effort to get drunk. 

He finds Boyd and Isaac pretty easy. They’re in the kitchen, pouring vodka shots for themselves. Boyd’s dressed as Django, hat on his head and a fake gun on his hip. Isaac is covered in glitter and wearing fangs. There’s too much gel in his hair. Derek doesn’t want to know what _that_ ’s about.

“Hey, Derek. Nice costume,” he says sarcastically. “We’re just about to try out this whole getting drunk business. Here goes nothing.” He and Boyd both grab a knife from one of those magnetic strips above the counter.

“Last I checked, there were no knives involved in taking shots,” Derek remarks.

“Stiles’ idea,” Boyd says. 

Isaac shrugs. “As much as I hate to admit it, it’s a good idea: if we have an open wound of some kind, we’ll be able to focus on it to suppress our healing better. It’s weird, but it works. I tried it last night at Scott’s.” 

“Ready?” Boyd asks. Isaac nods, and they both make a little cut around the fleshy base of their thumbs. It bleeds a little, not _too_ deep, but as they stare at their hands, they don’t heal. After a moment, they both look up at each other and go for the shots. Six each. The first two look pretty painful, but by the last, they seem okay. Isaac wipes his eyes, holds up his hand. The cut’s still there, and his grin is a little lopsided. 

Boyd is feeling his mouth with a look of serious contemplation. “I think my lips are numb,” he says.

“Good. Let’s grab a couple of beers,” Isaac says, then looks at Derek. “You wanna hang out with us?” Derek looks at them for a moment, then shrugs. Boyd offers him a beer from the fridge. Miller Lite. Derek shakes his head, holding up the beer he’s brought. It’s certainly better than carbonated piss. 

Stiles, Scott, and Allison join them once they get outside. Allison’s got her bow in her hands and her hair’s in a messy braid that drapes over one shoulder. She and Scott are wearing matching outfits. It’s familiar but Derek can’t put his finger on what their costumes are.

Stiles looks at the drinks in their hands and finger guns at them. It’s less effective considering that he has a half-full beer can in one hand.

“ _That’s_ what I’m talking about! Party time, motherfuckers! Time to get _crunk_ , ja feel?” 

Derek rolls his eyes and slips the can from Stiles’ grip. “I’m cutting you off.”

“ _On what grounds?_ ” Stiles yells. 

“On the grounds that you’re starting to sound like an idiot. _Ja feel_?” Everyone laughs while Stiles makes a series of very expressive, indignant faces. 

“He’s right,” Scott says. “I have to take you home later and I don’t want you puking in my mom’s car. She’ll _never_ give me the keys again.”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “Will no one _stop_ this injustice?” He deflates when the other three shrug. “You’re all terrible friends. I’m going to go hang out with Lydia. She’s _way_ nicer than all of you.” 

Derek rolls his eyes as Stiles storms off. But he’s back a second later.

“Wait, so does this mean that I don’t _normally_ sound like an idiot?” 

Groaning, Derek pushes his face away. “Go talk to Lydia, _idiot_.” Stiles goes, but he smells _happy_. It’s a very particular smell. Almost like warm citrus.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Isaac says mournfully.

“What?” Derek asks, snapping to him. 

He shrugs, glances at Scott, who’s grinning. “You’re totally _friends_ ,” Scott says. “With _Stiles_.” 

“That’s a pretty harsh assumption,” Derek says, then takes a sip or gulp or two of his beer.

“Don’t even try to play it off, man,” Boyd tells him with a little smile. 

Isaac snorts. “Pack is one thing, but _friends_. I don’t know why anyone would force that on themselves.” 

“Hey, Stiles is a great friend!” Scott says. 

Allison pats Scott’s arm. “Isaac knows that. He and Stiles are just pretending to dislike each other to keep the rivalry alive for the sake of their prank war.”

“What prank war?” Scott asks. Isaac glares at Allison.

“I said ‘tank war’,” she says quickly. “It’s a game. Online. Role-play. As tanks.”

Scott nods, impressed. “That sounds cool. Show me that later,” he tells Isaac; Allison winces when Isaac gives her a look.

“Hey, look, Danny’s here,” Isaac says, elbowing Derek. Across the pool, Danny’s coming in from the back gate, dressed in a starched white shirt tucked into khaki pants. Beneath the shirt, it looks like he’s wearing something blue and red. His hair is gelled into a single curl on his forehead, and he’s wearing a pair of glasses.

“How’s that going?” Scott asks. “What with the, uh, _training_.” 

Isaac’s smirk turns into a lecherous grin. 

“You two are completely unsubtle.”

Boyd rolls his eyes. “Wonder who they learned _that_ from.” Derek glares at him, betrayed. They’re terrible people, his pack. 

Scott pulls out his phone, squints, then looks up at Derek. “Stiles says that it’s super lame that you don’t have a costume but that if you push up your sleeves and borrow Boyd’s gloves, you could pass as having made half an effort.” Derek frowns. _What costume would that be?_ But then Derek looks down at his henley and realizes what Stiles is trying to make him.

“I’m not going to be _Dexter Morgan_ ,” Derek tells Scott with feeling. 

“He said that you’d say that and that when you did, to tell you that if you don’t put on the gloves, he’ll get naked and wrap himself up in cling wrap and follow you around all night so people put the pieces together anyway.” 

Boyd presses the gloves into Derek’s chest. “I don’t need to see that, okay? _No one_ needs to see that.” Derek stares at him, at the gloves, doing everything he can to not imagine Stiles naked.

“For the love of God, man, just take them! Take one for the team,” Isaac says. Derek pulls the gloves on. He’s not sure if he should be feeling a little miffed on Stiles’ behalf. He’s _certain_ that Stiles would take offense to people considering his nudity to be a dire threat. But he shouldn’t be naked. Ever. As far as Derek’s concerned, he showers in a pair of cut-off denim shorts.

“Happy?” Derek asks, holding up his hands. 

“It’s amazing how little it takes to make you look like a serial killer,” Scott says. As he says it, Allison’s look turns thoughtful and her mouth twists in a way that’s not _quite_ a decision, but it’s close. 

“ _Hilarious_ ,” Derek says. Then, after a moment, “Well, this has been buckets of fun, but I’m going inside.” No one protests really, and he takes his beers with him. Maybe he’ll get a little drunk tonight. He can try, at least. 

The living room is full, but right up the stairs, there’s a little window seat overlooking the patio. The hallway is dark, but there’s plenty of light from below. Derek sits, legs stretched out across the cushions, and pops open a beer. It’s something to be alone without being alone. To be free of having to figure out an endless stream of interactions and boredom but to still feel the proximity of the pack. It’s not something that could be felt from the distance of home. 

He’s three beers in and sort of meditating when he hears a familiar pulse and a series of footfalls on the stairs. Danny smiles, offering a dimple and a jaunty little salute. He slows at the top of the stairs, tapping the banister lightly. 

“What’s up?” Derek asks after a moment of weird silence. 

“I shouldn’t dance with anyone right now, what with everything, but Isaac said you were here, so I was wondering…” He bites his lip, smiling nervously.

“I don’t dance,” Derek says, eyes narrowing.

Danny smiles, shaking his head. “Nah, man, no offense, but straight guys aren’t my type. I just need to take the edge off so there aren’t any accidents. That’s all.” 

Well, then. Probably a good idea for the sake of public safety. 

Derek waves him over, and Danny comes up with no hesitation now and sits on the edge of window seat. One of his hands finds Derek’s shoulder, his thumb arching gently. There’s no awkward moment of eye contact because Danny goes right in, licking at Derek’s mouth. He opens for him, and there’s that gentle pull. He’s focusing on that so intensely that he almost doesn’t hear the sound of other feet on the stairs, a familiar-sounding breath, and the sound of jostling cardboard. Sure, Derek could pull away, but Stiles is probably just looking for the bathroom, which is about fifteen feet away, according to his nose, and it’s nothing Stiles hasn’t seen anyway. Danny’s hand curls around the back of his neck, holding him in. Derek’s stronger, he reminds himself of that instead of jerking away. It’s almost impossible to focus; he’s acutely aware of Stiles’ presence at the top of the stairs, just standing there, like Danny had. 

“You know, there’s, like, _four_ bedrooms on this floor _alone_ ,” Stiles says, voice hitching a little. Danny doesn’t startle or pull away, just raises the finger to him. Derek is the one to ease back.

“This isn’t going to be a weird…thing,” Derek says to both of them. “We’re not going to keep doing this somewhere you’ll show up.” Stiles looks back at him, shifts his weight, and rolls his eyes. 

“Well, then,” Danny says, getting up. “I think I’m gonna go get my party on. Have fun.” He brushes past Stiles, who looks a little confused and a little more sober.

And he’s just standing there.

“What are you supposed to be anyway?” Derek asks.

Stiles grins, pulling out a fake knife with cheerios glued to it. “Cereal killer. Get it?” 

Derek gives him a dry look.

“Okay, it was this or a Freudian Slip, and Lydia told me that if I did that, I’d have to shave my legs to really pull it off, and I just _knew_ that my dad would totally come in right in the middle and we’d have a very uncomfortable conversation about how I’m not on the swim team but _we should all just love who we love_. So. Yeah. I painted a cereal box instead. It’s kind of badass, if I do say so myself, but it’s also, like, _really_ uncomfortable? And I’m not sure how I’m going to get it off to pee. I needed Scott to get me into this thing, so…” 

Derek sighs, standing. “Arms up.” Stiles puts them in the air, and Derek lifts the box over his head easily. He’s wearing a black long sleeve t-shirt that’s maybe a little bit too short because he has to tug it over his stomach when he puts his arms down.

“Thanks, man. Be right back.” As he runs off, Derek takes his seat again, taking a gulp or two of his beer. Judging by the view from the window, the party seems to be in full swing. There’s an Aquaman and Ariel are in the pool with the Hulk and someone in a horse mask. It’s probably not the weirdest thing he’ll see tonight. 

When Stiles comes back, he picks up Derek’s feet and slips under them. Derek raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Stiles shrugs, leaning back against the window.

“You know what? Last time I was at a party here, I hallucinated my dad. It was a pretty bad night,” he says, shifting a little and pulling Derek’s feet into a more comfortable position on his lap. “That was when Lydia was Peter’s creepy thought-slave. I still can’t believe he tried to go all Imhotep on us. You killed him, though, didn’t you? The second time, I mean.”

Derek shakes his head. “He left when things started heating up with the Alphas. I couldn’t have killed him again anyway. He taught me how to drive.”

“What was he like?” Stiles winces almost immediately. “I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

“He was dramatic. Good at telling stories. The kids always loved him. And old-fashioned, in a Clark Gable sort of way. He’d only watch black-and-white movies. And he was a bit of a grandma’s boy, because he was the youngest and she’d spoiled him. Every Valentine’s day, he would buy a huge bouquet of roses for my great-grandmother and try to teach everyone to dance because he said that was what romance was. We hated it. I mean, not _really_ , but, you know.” Derek stares out the window as something sharp curls in his chest. “I miss him.” _Everyone_. He misses _everyone._

Stiles looks at him, half-smiling because there’s not much to say to that. Then, “You know, I try to figure it out sometimes, but there’s not really any sense to it, is there? There’s no reason why you, in particular, got this massive, tragic bucket of shit dumped on you. Or why Scott got bitten by Peter, or why Jackson’s parents were killed the night he was born, or why my mom was sick.” The last part comes out soft, really soft, and Derek hates him a little bit right now because _this_ is what he tries not to think about. Why _did_ fate throw him Kate? What had he done to deserve meeting her? He hadn’t done anything wrong then, he’d been nice to people at school, he’d listened to his Alpha, he’d loved his pack. There wasn’t anything he could have possibly done to deserve killing his family. 

“Thinking like that doesn’t go anywhere good,” Derek says. “Bad things happen, and then we react to them badly, and everything gets worse. That’s how it works.”

“Suddenly the first four months we knew each other make a lot more sense,” Stiles says, “because that’s pretty much the _worst_ philosophy I’ve ever heard in my entire life. And I spent _hours_ in a wikipedia wormhole researching scientology. I mean, _shit happens_ is one thing, but _shit happens and then we bury ourselves in it?_ That’s just _depressing_.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not right.”

Stiles leans his head back against the window, frowning deeply. “Maybe it’s all a test. Like, we get shit thrown at us and it sucks and then we have to prove ourselves by surviving it.” 

“What if we failed?” 

At that, Stiles looks at him. Gently, like you would if you were telling someone they were dying. 

“How can you have failed if it’s not over yet? That doesn’t make any sense.” 

Derek looks away. “But if you make the wrong choice at the right moment, so the shit getting thrown at you is your fault in the first place, then that has to mean you’ve failed in some way.” Stiles makes a noise like he’s been wounded, and when Derek looks at him, his face looks cracked-open. Like a fragile shell. Like he’s crumbling away. He’s at a loss for words, and Derek has no idea why. 

A strange, broken moment sticks between them until Stiles’ mouth closes and he swallows thickly. 

“Did my dad ever tell you how my mom died?” 

Derek shakes his head.

“Yeah, I didn’t think he would. I mean, he doesn’t really know it anyway. At least I hope not.” He takes a breath, settles back against the window, then says, “Cancer, you know? It started in her skin. She had this one birthmark on her shoulder that looked like a squash. I was young, so I didn’t think there was anything weird about it, but she went to the doctor once and they said she was sick. That was the first time. I think I was seven or so.”

Stiles drums his thumbs on Derek’s shins, biting his lip hard. He glances out the window, and he doesn’t look at Derek. His eyes fall to his hands, and worries the skin around his thumbnail.

“She had surgery, and then they did chemo. She hated it. When her hair started falling out, she shaved it in the middle of the kitchen. I asked her to do mine, too. I said I didn’t want to have hair either until she got better. And after a few months, she did. She stopped being so yellow, gained some weight back, and it was all fine.”

“And then, when I was around ten, she started getting pain in her back and her ribs.” Stiles shakes his head again. “It wasn’t anything until it was. The doctor said it got into her bones. It was going to be okay. They said that after some aggressive treatment, it would be fine. She would be fine. So we shaved our heads again, the three of us, like that was our good luck charm, and we thought it was going to be fine.

“But it only got worse. The chemo made her really sick, too sick, and she was in the hospital for a long time. It didn’t work though. And she was in so much _pain._ I used to sit with her as much as I could. Missed a lot of school, enough that they had to hold me back a year, but she just hurt so much and I couldn’t be somewhere else knowing that she was in pain. So I sat with her and I told her I would do anything to make her feel better. 

“This one day, she said there was something I could do. Two things, actually. She said the first was to press this one button. She said it was to call the nurses, but it didn’t always work so good, so I had to keep at it until she told me to stop. So I did it, and she started slumping a little and said that I’d done good. And she said, ‘ _Now you have to say goodbye_ ’. That was when I realized what I did, and I didn’t know what to do, I just started freaking out while the heart monitor started making this awful noise. And I never did it. I never told her goodbye.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say.

“So I just…if I’ve already failed everything, if I failed for good when I was that young and there’s no way to get past it, then there’s no reason to go on, is there?”

He wants to say something vaguely positive or tell Stiles that it’s not his fault, not really, but what he actually says is, “Kate Argent seduced me so that she could kill my family, and I gave her everything she needed to do it. She never even had to ask.” 

“Wow.” 

Stiles has this look, like he has absolutely _no_ idea what to say to that. Like he’s working it over, and he _gets_ it, like it’s not too implausible, but he doesn’t know what to say about it. And he shouldn’t. He’s young and he shouldn’t be able to understand, and Derek doesn’t want him to say it because of that. 

“Well, look at the two of us, then. We’re pretty fucked up, huh?” Stiles says eventually and he looks at Derek. 

The edge he catches of that look is _absurd_ and somehow, he laughs. A little hysterical and fatalist and shocked. And Stiles laughs, too. 

It’s the kind of laughter that’s a substitute for crying. It’s desperate and a little too wild, a little too out of control, and it stretches on until foreign parts of Derek hurt. But when silence creeps into the void the laughter leaves behind, there’s nothing to distract from the immediacy of sitting together with their worst parts between them. It’s all just there where it can’t be taken back. There’s no way to rewind and un-give Stiles that part of himself. There’s something hideous and disgusting about that, but also aching, in an almost good way. He almost _misses_ feeling safe enough to make himself vulnerable, even after last time.

Derek looks at Stiles and wants to find a moment that’s not this one, a quiet moment, yes, but bright, too. He wants to hold Stiles in some sunlit place and tell him that he’s so much better than he thinks, that after seeing all of him, he’s good and pure. And Derek will say it over and over until Stiles starts to believe it. 

But this isn’t the right place, and anyway, he’s not sure Stiles would ever believe him. 

They’re sitting there, and it’s a little awkward, but it’s not, really. It’s awkward because it should be awkward but it isn’t. It’s quiet in a way that feels right, like no one needs to say anything at all. Stiles is playing with his shoelaces, smiling to himself, and there’s no words to find and fit between them. 

After a while, it looks like Stiles starts thinking about something, something he wants to say, and Derek watches it bubble out of him.

“Everyone down there is talking about Winter Formal. It’s, like, _three months_ away, but people are already making plans. It’s crazy.” Derek looks at him, waiting for the point. “I mean, Scott and Allison are obviously going together. And Lydia and Danny are going together because Jackson’s not here and Danny isn’t dating for, you know, reasons. Isaac says he’s ‘playing the field’ but he and Boyd are probably going to go as bros because, hey, going stag by yourself sucks, and I _know_ he doesn’t want to tag along with Scott and Allison. I mean, I guess _I_ could be their third wheel, but that’s kind of lame.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone to ask.”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, but I mean, I could ask _anyone_. It’s the _answer_ that’s the problem. My one moment of lacrosse glory was kind of overshadowed by Jackson dying on the field, and no one wants to hang out with the spazzy Sheriff’s kid. The only reason I went at _all_ last year was because Allison blackmailed Lydia into going with me.” He makes a face at his own assumed loserdom. What’s Derek supposed to say? _You’re beautiful and people should love you and it doesn’t make sense that they wouldn’t_? It doesn’t sound the way Derek means it. It sounds creepy and romantic when it’s not like that. When Derek’s just acknowledging facts. 

“I bet you’ll find someone,” Derek says lamely.

“Yeah? And what happens when I don’t?”

Derek shrugs.

“After everything, I just want something _normal_ for once.” 

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that.

Stiles looks at him, pleading. “Be my pity date, Derek. For the sake of whatever pack loyalty you have. For the sake of us both being fucked up assholes who’re _way_ too fucking awesome and hilarious for anyone else to handle. And I’ll get you whatever you want for dinner. By that, I mean that now would be a good time to tell you that my dad is going to ask you to come over for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Burgers. Not turkey, actual beef. And I’m going to say yes, but _only_ because I know that you’ll find someone to go with you.” 

Stiles grins. “You’re the man. I mean it, you’re the greatest—“

“Don’t think I won’t get you a corsage and meet your dad at the front door,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow in warning.

“ _You wouldn’t_.”

“I _would_. Our tuxes would match. I’d bring you flowers and take you to dinner. I’d have songs dedicated to you. There would be slow-dancing where we don’t make eye contact,” Derek assures him. “It would be the most horrible and embarrassing experience of your life. I’d make sure of it.”

Stiles gapes, shaking his head. “You’re a _monster_.”

Winking, Derek grins wide to show off his long canines a little. “Just giving you a little motivation.”

“I’ve made a horrible mistake, haven’t I?” Stiles asks. Derek nods with a little too much glee, so he reins it in a bit. Threatening Stiles with a full Hollywood prom-style date is maybe not a good reason to be so amused. Or maybe it is. 

“By the way,” Derek says, “tell your dad that I fully intend to take him running with me.”

Stiles shakes his head and says, “Sometimes, I don’t know if I should hate you or fear you or make you my best friend or something.” The _or something_ sticks in Derek’s ear, but he tries not to think about it. 

“I try,” Derek says, because he does. 

If there’s one thing he does, it’s _try_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk of Kate manipulating Derek, including lasting emotional damage and it's like HEAVY.  
> Brief self-harm, but along the same intentional lines of Derek sticking his nails into his leg while paralyzed in the sheriff station.  
> Coercion of a minor into assisting a suicide.


	4. Maybe hearts were made to pump blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witches, y'all. And ~feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Frank Ocean's "Wiseman".
> 
> Two more chapters till the end, y'all. Prepare thyselves. Ngl, this is probably the most "fanficcy" chapter of the whole thing so yeah.
> 
> Warnings at the end.

He’s on the Stilinskis’ couch the night before the full moon.

It’s after dinner. The TV’s on mute so Stiles can do homework at one end of the couch and Derek will read at the other end. 

( _The books are a Marena thing. She’d asked Derek what he’d wanted to do when he was younger, and he’d told her about how he wanted to study English, poetry, maybe. She’d told him to get a library card, and he had, so he reads. Sometimes Stiles is reading too, sometimes he’s writing in a binder or typing, but when Derek’s over, they’re always on the couch. Because they’ve been doing this so often that Derek doesn’t want to count how many times he’s been here in the past two weeks._ )

The Sheriff said over dinner that he’d been sleeping better. Probably because Derek’s been taking him running lately. Nothing too hard, just trying to get him into it, and he’s getting better. 

Maybe Derek feels a little guilty for being here instead of his place, the _pack_ ’s place. But Isaac is usually at Scott’s house because Mrs. McCall thinks he’s like a stray and wants to be a functioning parent for him, and there’s no way Derek’s going to begrudge him that. It just means that his place is empty if he’s there, so he’s not all that often. The Stilinskis feel like home for him, and the Sheriff’s offered him his job back, and it feels like everything’s finally settling into place.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Someone go get that,” the Sheriff says, focused on the game.

“But _Daaad_ , I’m _reading_ ,” Stiles whines with an exaggerated pout. 

The Sheriff bats a hand. “Fine. Derek, you do it.”

“But _Daaad_ , I’m _reading_ ,” Derek whines, grinning because his Stiles impression is _spot on_. (He can tell by the stuck-out tongue Stiles shows him.)

“Seriously? You’re both terrible people. It’s the last three minutes, the Giants are down by six, and you want _me_ to get up and get the door? There’s a special circle in hell reserved for you two.” He gets up as their caller knocks again, and when Derek sniffs, he knows who it is. 

When Chris Argent comes in, Derek is halfway through lifting Stiles’ legs off of his lap, trying to disentangle himself enough to get up. Stiles flails a little at who it is and their position, probably, but Derek’s got his back to him. He shakes Chris’ hand. It’s symbolic, sure, but it’s important symbolism.

“What’s going on?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Chris says, glancing at the Sheriff and stepping forward out of his line of sight to the TV, “and we’ve got a little bit of a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Stiles asks. Derek looks at Chris for an answer.

“We were doing some routine training in the woods when we stumbled on a strange building of some sort. None of us had ever seen it before, and Allison texted a picture to Scott and _he_ hadn’t seen it before. No one’s been able to contact _either_ of you tonight, so I thought I’d drop by.” 

Derek winces. “Our phones are upstairs. Sorry. But there shouldn’t be any cabins in those woods. Something’s not right.”

“Tell me about it,” Chris says with feeling. “When we tried to approach, we were repelled about five feet from the door. It was like there was a _wall_. I don’t know what or why that is, but something tells me it would be in our best interests to find out.” 

Behind Derek, Stiles closes his textbook and sets it down. “So howabout a little walk through the woods, then? Let’s see what we’re up against.”

“ _No_ ,” both Derek and the Sheriff say at the same time.

“I’ll check it out during the day tomorrow,” Derek says. “And if you have photos, make sure they go to Deaton. _You_ ,” he says, turning to Stiles, “can look at the photos and do some research. See if we can get a better idea of what’s up before I head out there tomorrow.”

“Dude, do _not_ make me the Bones to your Booth. I’m good at more than just research. You gotta let me out in the _field_. I could skip tomorrow and help you out—“

“ _Not happening_ ,” the Sheriff says. “You’re going to school tomorrow and that’s _final_.”

“Missing _one_ day of high school isn’t going to ruin my life,” Stiles says.

Derek shakes his head. “It will if we get ambushed by something and you get _killed_. I don’t want you out there until we know what we’re dealing with. The only human who’s equipped for self-defense right now is Allison. If we find out what it is and Deaton says we need someone with your skills to deal with it, then and _only then_ are you going to go out there to take a look at this thing. Are we clear?” 

“ _Crystal_ ,” Stiles hisses, his face making it clear that Derek’s going to get an earful later.

Chris Argent coughs. “Talk to me tomorrow once you’ve checked it out,” he says to Derek, then looks at the Sheriff. “We should get a beer sometime. I get the feeling we have a lot in common.” 

The Sheriff smiles halfway, says, “And _I_ have a feeling I’ll be taking you up on that one of these days.”

It looks like they’re sharing some sort of inside joke, and Derek’s not sure how he feels about that, but then Chris is out the door and Stiles is poking him in the chest.

“Who the _hell_ do you think you are?” Stiles asks, teeth bared.

“Take it upstairs,” the Sheriff tells them, raising a hand, before Derek can respond. Stiles grabs Derek by the wrist and tugs him upstairs. Technically, he allows it to happen, but only because he knows that the more he fights, the less likely it’ll be that Stiles will do what he wants. 

“That was _not_ okay, Derek,” Stiles says as soon as he shuts his bedroom door behind them. “I’m not a child. You need to understand that. I’m capable of making my own decisions.”

Derek nods. “I know that. But you’re not careful enough—“

“I’m not _made of glass_! I won’t break if someone touches me, okay?” Something about the way he says it, like it’s heavy with meaning, makes Derek’s gut twist, but he packs it away.

“I made a promise to your father to keep you safe, and I’m not going back on it. The only way I can be _sure_ you’re okay is if you’re _here_ , and I’ll do whatever I need to make that happen. I don’t care if you hate me for it.” He doesn’t. He reminds himself of that. The end justifies the means. That’s important, because he has something he can pull out if it’s necessary, even though Stiles will probably hate him for saying it. Whatever it takes is acceptable, as long as the result is that he's safe.

Stiles makes an exasperated noise. “Look, I don’t care if he made you swear on the condition that he wouldn’t _arrest_ you. This has nothing to do with you and him. You need to understand that I’m not going to just _collapse and die_ if I go out in the woods. I can _help_ if you just let me see what’s out there.” Shit, he's going to have to do it. Because Stiles has a point, and that means he'll find a way to argue his way into what he wants. Unless Derek can make him give up the fight.

“Don’t do this to him,” Derek says, telling himself that it’s okay if it gets the job done. “Don’t make your father lose you too.”

There’s a noise, a little half-gasp, like Derek’s just struck him across the face.

Stiles stares at him, face twisted, for a long time.

Guilt leeches into the air. He starts shaking, first in his hands, then up through his shoulders until his whole body’s trembling. Something in him is turning. He’s holding something in, and it’s not exactly  _rage;_ the smell is off for rage. Derek’s trying to figure out what it is when Stiles punches him in the jaw. It hurts more than Derek would expect (because he's _not_ expecting it) but he doesn’t broadcast it.

Stiles swears and shakes out his hand.

After a second, he looks up at Derek, swears again, and shoves him hard. Hard enough to that Derek gives with it and takes a step back.

“You can’t _do_ that,” Stiles says. “You _know_ , and that means you can’t _do that_.” He shoves Derek again. “I told you things I’ve never told _anyone_ , and you—“ he shoves again and keeps shoving until he’s moving Derek across the room “—you can’t just _use_ that against me. You _know_.” 

Derek’s back hits the wall and Stiles beats his fists against Derek’s chest. It doesn’t hurt much. It’s nothing, letting Stiles move him, push him, pull him, do what he needs. It’ll make him feel a little better, and Derek doesn’t mind. His gut is hurting for another reason. Because he  _shouldn't_ have said it. It's necessary, but that does not make it humane. It does not make it something his conscience can forgive.

They’re level, and Stiles’ breath smells too much like guilt, guilt that Derek gave him. That’s why he does it. That’s why Derek’s arms move, wrap around Stiles’ back. He’s still fighting, but he makes this broken noise and stops, lets Derek hold him still.

“I _hate_ you,” Stiles says against his ear.

“I’m sorry,” Derek tells him. It’s too real, maybe, but it’s what comes out. 

“Why would you _say_ something like that?”

Derek tries not to smell his shampoo. “Because I am.”

“No,” Stiles says, pulling away to look Derek in the eyes. “About my dad.”

“Because I thought it would make you stay.” Derek looks away, his hands dropping to his sides. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” It’s not something he ever meant to say because it undoes all of this, but he just says it because that look in Stiles’ eyes compels honesty, and he _means_ it, maybe too much. More than Stiles knows, that’s for sure, and Stiles is _never_ going to know. 

Stiles hands smooth out flat on Derek’s collarbones, and he looks at Derek, and he smells _warm_. It’s the opposite of the smell of snow. He smells like warm things and it’s a smell that Derek wants to crawl inside of for a long time. It’s not something he can name, though, and he’s not comfortable with that, with getting cozy and familiar in something unknown, so he side-steps away. 

Stiles’ hands fall. 

“Will you stay here?” Derek asks. “I need to know that you’ll be safe.”

“Yeah, I…” Stiles trails off, looking at him with a strangely soft expression. “Yeah. I’ll sit here and twiddle my thumbs.”

“Stiles—“

Stiles shakes his head. “I’ll stay. Don’t worry about it.” He’s not lying. That’s all Derek needs here.

Derek nods, heading out.

“Oh, and don’t get murdered by a supernatural creature, loser,” Stiles tells him. There’s a warmth to it. Derek half-smiles at him because it means that this has gone better than it should have. Than it could have. Derek’s imagined this conversation because it was always inevitable. Usually, he’s cooler, keeps things closer to his chest, and he doesn’t drop the big one. It's not really a surprise that he would fail.

“Thanks.”

Derek hops down the stairs, picks up his book off the couch.

“You’re not staying?” the Sheriff asks, surprised.

“I…what?” 

The Sheriff shrugs. “I just figured…if you want. You could. Just don’t forget about protection.”

“I’ll protect him to the limit of my abilities,” Derek assures him.  _Maybe even further_.

“No, I meant— I meant that you should make sure to _be safe_.” The Sheriff does something with his eyebrows that’s confusing.

Derek narrows his eyes, saying, “I’m not in any danger.”

“Nevermind. We’re talking about two different things,” he says, then must see Derek’s lingering confusion. “Don’t worry about it.”

Derek looks at the Sheriff, cocks his head, but doesn’t get any more than that. “He’ll stay. Tomorrow, I mean. He’ll be safe.”

“I know. I trust you.” 

Derek knows that that’s not something he says lightly, not about Stiles. 

 

The next morning, not long after dawn, Derek walks through the woods. Chris sent him the coordinates last night, and Derek can see by the little blinking dot on his phone that he’s getting near. A stiff autumn breeze kicks up, but he doesn’t pull his jacket tighter. Leaves tumble forwards across the forest floor and when he follows them with his eyes, he finds what he’s looking for.

 _Cabin_ is not the word Derek would have used. _Cottage_ , maybe. Stone, with a steep roof, eaves, ivy, and decorative windows. It’s the sort of thing that belongs on a page of Grimm’s fairy tales. 

Not a good sign.

Derek snaps a few pictures as he approaches, sending them to Stiles. 

That’s when he notices the smoke coming out of the chimney. 

Someone’s home, and Derek’s not sure he’s going to like whoever it is. But he doesn’t have the luxury of getting to turn tail and run. If he can’t handle this, no one can. Objectively, he’s the strongest, which means the responsibility falls to him.

Whatever mysterious invisible wall Chris had been talking about isn’t there because Derek is able to walk right up to the door. There’s an ornate knocker, and he knocks loudly. Waits on the doorstep. After a moment, an older woman in a house dress answers the door. Her hair is neatly curled and her smile looks groomed.

“Yes? How can I help you?” Her voice has a light, musical quality to it.

“I’m not sure, actually,” Derek says with a shrug, “because all of a sudden, there’s a building on my land. So I’m going to get right to the point: what are you and what do you want?” 

Another woman, roughly the same age, comes to the door. “Why don’t you invite our guest inside?” Her accent is English.

“I’d rather stay out here, thanks,” Derek says. 

“That’s probably for the best, werewolf,” the first woman says. Her eyes narrow.

“Oh my, let’s not be rude,” the English woman says. “Please, Derek, come inside. Would you like tea? Coffee?”

Derek frowns. “How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot of things, dear. We’d be happy to have an open discussion with you over some tea. Do you like muffins? I just made some. Cranberry-orange and lemon poppy seed.” It’s a bad decision and he knows it, but Derek enters the cottage, noticing very suddenly that it must be bigger on the inside. The second woman leads him to a seating area, an armchair with white upholstery, settled across from a similar loveseat. “Judith, dear, would you put on some tea?”

“Who are you?” Derek asks bluntly.

“You can call me Evelyn, dear.” She smiles sweetly, but it’s not a smile that makes him feel comfortable. “And as for the issue of your property, well, we’re only passing through. We won’t be here long, I promise you.”

“Then what are you here for?”

Judith comes back in and sits on the loveseat next to Evelyn. 

“Not much for small talk, are we?” Evelyn asks. “Well, Beacon Hills has been a curious place for some time, hasn’t it? Your family, and then in this past year, the whole messy business. Safe to say, dear, _people have been watching_. But now that things seem to have settled, we thought we’d drop in and talk to your charming young necromancer.” 

That hits Derek with something of a shock. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, let’s not play coy. You have a very talented girl in your, well, pack, and we’d like to talk to her. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s not what you think it is,” Derek says quickly. “She didn’t know what she was doing. Peter manipulated her, gave her hallucinations to show her what to do.”

“It couldn’t have just been _anyone_ , Derek.” Evelyn shares a look with Judith. “Lydia Martin is more talented and powerful than you know. We would like to help her with that.”

Derek narrows his eyes. “And _how_ , exactly, are you planning on doing _that_?”

“She needs a teacher, someone with a practiced hand. We can offer her that. It would be our pleasure,” Judith tells him.

“So what you’re saying,” he confirms, looking between them, “is that you’d like to take Lydia with you when you leave.”

Evelyn shrugs. “She’ll leave of her own volition once we’ve talked to her.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Now, don’t be like that,” Evelyn says sharply. “We’re being civil, here. We could have paid her a visit already, but we chose to let you come to us for negotiations. We’re being very respectful of your territory, but Lydia doesn’t belong here with you.”

“She’s _pack_. She’ll always belong here. And if you try something on her, you’ll have the whole pack after you. There are more of us than you know, and we’ll fight with all we have.”

“You can’t match us,” Judith says. “You’re out of your league, wolf.”

“And, dear,” Evelyn says with a cold smile, “we know everything there is to know about your pack. We might even know more than you do.” Derek would probably bet money that they do because he’s constantly about ten steps behind everyone else, but they don’t get to know that. Still, they have him at a loss. He doesn’t know what they can do, and he’s not sure he wants to figure it out.

“Lydia will choose whether she wants to talk to you or not. _I_ ’ll tell her. I don’t want to see you around.” 

They look at each other, then back at him. “That sounds fair,” Evelyn says. “You have three days. Will you stay for tea?” 

“No thanks,” he says because he doesn’t trust them and he knows enough not to eat anything here. “You’ll have her response soon.” 

The two women smile in exactly the same way. “ _Good_.”

Derek gets up a little awkwardly and leaves. He heads to Deaton’s first.

 

Deaton’s vaccinating a cat when Derek comes in the back. He looks up once, stroking the cat behind the ears.

“I thought you might drop by. Stiles and I exchanged some information in the early hours of the morning, but I expect you’ll be able to tell me more than we figured out.”

Derek pulls up the photos on his phone and shows them to Deaton. “It’s a cottage. There’s two women. They have to be witches or something. They want Lydia.”

“It’s not a cottage,” Deaton says, looking at the photo. “Well, not to everyone. It looks different, depending on the person. The Argents saw something like a bunker, I saw a house, and Stiles saw something out of a fairy tale.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Derek says quickly. “Stone, ivy growing up the walls, smoke coming out of the chimney.”

“I suspect its appearance depends on how people perceive things.”  Deaton’s expression turns mysterious, then drops. “You said they were witches? What do they want with Lydia?”

“They said she’s a _necromancer_ or something. Because of Peter, I guess. They think she’s powerful and they want to take her with them. Is she? Powerful, I mean?”

Deaton frowns. “I have no idea. She had to have some potential for Peter to have used her the way he did, but I’ve only talked to her a handful of times. I’m not an expert on Lydia Martin.”

“But Stiles is,” Derek says suddenly, realizing what this means. “He’ll know. Shit. He’s not going to like this. He won’t cooperate.”

“You might be surprised,” Deaton tells him with that enigmatic smile. “You’re friends, aren’t you?”

Derek shrugs. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Oh? You wouldn’t call yourself friends with him? So the fact that if, as it happened last night, someone was looking for you, they’d have the best luck at _his_ house, that doesn’t mean you’re friends? Then what _does_ it mean, exactly?”

“Look,” Derek says, “his dad has helped me out a lot. And he’s not _horrible_ to be around or anything. I don’t always mind him. But it’s because he’s pack. Packs don’t do friends the same way as humans.”

“Really? That’s news to me because I apparently _haven’t_ been clued in to the comings and goings of the local werewolf population for almost _twenty-five years,_ ” Deaton says with a stern look. “So yes, I know why you’re saying you’re not friends. I know that Alphas and the humans in their pack are usually not close. But I also know what usually happens when they _are_.” Deaton has this one stare that makes Derek feel like he’s being x-rayed, like he can see through all of the bullshit Derek puts up to protect himself. He feels flayed to his bones right now because he _knows_ what Deaton’s saying.

“It’s not like that. I’m not going to bite him for _any_ reason. The reason you’re thinking of isn’t a reason anyway.”

Deaton shakes his head. “I’m not talking about _biting_ , Derek. I’m talking about emotional well-being. _I’m talking about_ the fact that even though you have a pack, you still act like you’re alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Derek tells him with a glare.

“Despite your best efforts. And I wonder why that is? Something to think about, Derek. Everyone needs _some_ one.” 

Derek stares at him, trying not to get angry, maybe failing. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. What you’re saying, it’s impossible. It’s never going to happen because it _can’t_. But I’m not here to talk to you about that. I’m here to talk to about what we can do about _the pressing situation_. I told them I would let Lydia decide whether or not she wants to talk to them, but I don’t know what to do about anything else. If it gets out of hand, can we kill them? Is that possible? Are we strong enough?”

“ _One_ of us might be, if he can learn how to focus.”

“I don’t want him to be a part of this unless it’s _absolutely_ necessary. Unless people will _die_ otherwise. I want him as far away from this as possible,” Derek says with certainty. “Lydia is involved because she has to be, and Allison can take care of herself, but I don’t want anyone who can’t heal quickly to be involved.”

“He won’t like that,” Deaton says with a knowing look.

“I’ve already talked to him about it. We have an agreement. He’ll stay behind, where it’s safe. He may not like it, but he’ll do it.” 

“Even when his friends are threatened? When _Lydia_ ’s threatened? That’s a lot to ask of someone like him.”

Derek shrugs. “He promised me.”

Deaton sighs and looks at him with a mixture of expressions Derek can’t place. He picks up the cat on the table, letting it curl against his chest. The cat purrs softly.

“I wish you the best, Derek. I really do,” he says, taking the cat into the other room. Derek stands there for a moment before leaving, heading to the school.

 

It’s morning, maybe first or second period. Derek can’t really be sure. The hallways are quiet. As he passes by classrooms, he hears voices and heartbeats and breathing, and none of it belongs to who he’s looking for. But Stiles’ scent can be picked up easily enough. Derek follows it to where it branches from his locker to the direction of his first class. It winds through the halls, to the stairs. The room is on the second floor. Stiles is inside, but no one who’d be able to hear Derek outside. He knows that other members of the pack will have sensed him around by now, but they won’t seek him out.

It’s a few minutes before the bell rings and students come pouring out of their classrooms. There’s too many people in the way for Stiles to spot Derek, and he goes down the hall in the opposite direction. Derek follows, controlling his pace so that he catches up right before the top of the stairs. He greets Stiles with a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles jumps.

“Oh, _dear God_ , give a guy some warning! You almost gave me a heart attack, I swear—“

“You’re fine,” Derek says, even though he can hear Stiles’ heart pounding. He looks around; the stairwell is basically empty, probably the reason Stiles goes this way, but a student gives Derek a weird look as she passes by. “Can you be late to your next class? We need to talk. Somewhere private.” 

Stiles winces, thinking about it. “I mean, pre-season lacrosse practice isn’t until this afternoon, so the locker rooms will be empty? They’re on the other side of the school, too.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Derek follows him down the stairs and through hallways. Theoretically, he could find it himself, and he has before, from another part of the school, but it’s less effort to just let Stiles lead him there. They make it into the main hallway, crowded with people, and Stiles grabs his wrist as they push through bodies. His grip is warm and not too tight, just enough to hold onto him. His pulse is steady, if a little quick.

They get there just before the bell. Stiles shuts the door behind him, rushing forward to peek down the rows of lockers to double check that no one’s there. 

“It’s empty,” Derek tells him. “Finstock’s not in his office. The nearest person is a hundred yards away.” 

“We need to work on your inflection. Sometimes you make harmless things sound like threats, buddy,” Stiles says. “If it wouldn’t be a surprise to follow up what you’re saying with _No one will hear you scream_ , you should maybe try again.” Derek gives him a dry look. “Or not. Whatever. It’s cool. We’re all alone in the boys’ locker room and there’s no one around for a hundred yards. There’s _nothing_ creepy about that. By the way, I don’t know how you can stand it in here. Even _I_ think it smells like crotch sweat and homoerotic longing.”

“Are you done?” Derek asks, an eyebrow raised. “Believe it or not, I have actual business to discuss with you.”

“ _Shoot_ , then. I’m all ears.” Stiles swings a leg over one of the benches, straddling it and drumming his thumbs on the wood in front of him. There’s nothing distracting about it, but, well, Derek’s distracted. He looks older all of a sudden. The way he holds himself, the set of his shoulders, the way his arms frame his body, is older than when they first met. Like he’s settling into his skin.

Derek sniffs, clearing his mind, and says, “I went by the cottage this morning. I think they’re witches, and they want to talk to Lydia. They think that if they do, she’ll leave with them. They seem to believe that she’s some sort of powerful necromancer. Now, I _know_ you love her or whatever, but I talked to Deaton and—“

“I don’t, you know,” Stiles says. His hands are still and his pulse is steady. “I don’t love her like that. Not anymore. She, well, she took care of that. I want to protect her, but I can have a level head about this. If it were Scott or my dad or— my head’s clear, is my point. I won’t do anything stupid.” There aren’t any jumps or blips, not until the point where he caught himself, but just because Stiles believes something doesn’t mean he can’t be wrong. 

“Why should I believe you? You’ve been pining after her for _how_ long? How can I trust you on this?”

“How can you trust me on _anything_ , then?” Stiles asks with a frustrated sigh. “You don’t really trust _anyone_ , Derek, and that’s a problem when you need to work with people. But I’m telling you, I won’t do anything crazy. I’ll stay put. _Unless_ I can help. Because I’m not letting anything happen to any of my friends, and you need to understand that.”

Derek nods, getting from his look that he’s a part of that group. “Fine. Okay. And I _am_ working on it. I trust you, it’s just— People do stupid, stupid things when they think they’re in love. And people get hurt and then there’s only one person to blame, and I don’t want you to— It’s a lot to carry. Is what I’m saying.”

“I _swear_ , hand to God,” Stiles says, throwing a hand up in the air, “I am _not_ in love with Lydia Martin. I shit you not, she sat me down a couple months ago and told me that in no uncertain terms.”

“I didn’t think it worked like that.”

Stiles makes a half-amused, half-annoyed noise and says, “Neither did I, _believe me_. But she sat me down and said—“ he raises his voice “—‘ _Stilinski, I’m smarter than you. And because I’m smarter than you, I’m going to tell you what you haven’t figured out yet: you’re in love with an idea. I’m a person. I’m needy and high-maintenance and, believe it or not, but sometimes, I fart. I’m a human being and you need to get that through your head_.’ And I thought about that for a while, and I realized that she’s right. I could never imagine her doing normal things, and that’s not really how it should be. People have flaws and needs and if you don’t love them for that too, then it’s not really love, is it?”

Derek wants to tell him that it’s mature of him to have realized that, but he’s thinking about flaws, about how Stiles slouches progressively when he reads to the point that he’ll push Derek off the couch because he’s not paying attention, and his room is usually a mess because he doesn’t do laundry half as much as he needs to, and he’s an annoying little shit on purpose sometimes because it gets him what he wants. Derek wants to say something, but he looks at Stiles and all he can do is think _I’m not in love with you_ over and over. He’s not saying it, so he can’t check it for a lie. 

” _Anyway,_ what’s the plan? Are we going to let these bitches talk to Lydia? What if they brainwash her into going with them or something?” 

Derek shrugs. “We don’t know how powerful they are yet. We have no idea what we’re up against. It’s up to Lydia, though, to decide if she wants to talk to them. We’ll figure things out from there.”

“If she says no and they decide to take it out on us, what do we do? Do we kill them? Or are we trying to be pacifists?” he asks, and Derek gives him a look. “Right. _Bring on the blood_. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“Except _you_ —“

“Will be locked safely in my room, praying for your safe return,” Stiles says quickly, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I know. And it’s funny, I haven’t died yet and I’ve been basically in the middle of things. In fact, I can think of _several_ occasions where if I hadn’t been in the middle of things, _you_ wouldn’t be here to lecture me. Which, by the way, I’m still not okay with, on principle.” 

“Yeah, you saved my life a few times,” Derek agrees, “but you’ve also _almost been killed_. You’ve almost been killed by Peter, nearly drowned, _barely_ escaped being mauled by a kanima, been kidnapped by Gerard, and were almost blamed for the deaths of the Alpha pack. I’m counting that one because had you been charged, you would have been tried as an adult and probably been given the death sentence. _So remind me again how your involvement has kept you safe_?”

Stiles makes an angry noise. “That’s not the _point_! The point is that I’m useful in bad situations! I’ve helped you, helped _everyone_ , more than you give me credit for, and if you let me—“

“No,” Derek says, raising his voice, “ _none of that matters if you’re dead._ ” 

That hangs in the air, suspended in a charged silence. Stiles’ expression is inscrutable, his mouth soft and open, his eyes wide, body limp. His spine caved at Derek’s words. His limbs slumped like his strings had been cut. He’s just sitting there, looking at Derek like he _understands_ something. 

That makes exactly one of them. 

“Look, I’m tired of having this argument,” Derek says at last.

“Yeah, no, it’s okay. Sorry.” Stiles stands up and for a moment, they’re too close. They’re toe-to-toe and Stiles is breathing his air, his breath still smelling slightly minty from brushing his teeth this morning, and Derek takes a step back. Because it’s not supposed to happen. Stiles hadn’t meant to get so close. It’s an accident. An ugly, stupid accident. (Isn’t _that_ the story of his life?)

“Go to class,” Derek tells him, backing away still. “You’re late.”

Stiles nods, still looking at him with that unreadable look, and then he’s gone. Derek’s alone in a smelly locker room. The taste of mint lingers at the back of his throat.

 

It goes over like this: the pack and the Argents, minus Stiles, the Sheriff, and Deaton, all approach the cottage as back-up for Lydia. She’s decided to agree to a short talk, but only in front of everyone. That way they can be sure that there’s nothing tricky going on. Deaton probably _should_ be with them, but he tells Derek that his purpose is to be neutral, that he can’t get involved. Derek’s not sure exactly what that means, but the way Deaton says it, it’s non-negotiable. It would help to have someone with some sort of experience with the whole magic thing, but Derek’s gone into bad situations with poor preparation, and they’ve come out okay. For the most part.

Stiles is home, and the Sheriff’s making sure of that, so it could be worse.

Evelyn and Judith come out before Derek knocks. They take in the crowd with matching looks. Their calculating eyes settle on Lydia.

“We do this here, in the open,” Derek says. “With everyone watching.”

“But everyone’s not here, are they?” Evelyn asks with a little smile. “I’d say we’re missing three. Well, _five_ , but there’s no need to be hurtful, is there?” Derek thinks of Jackson and Erica, molars grinding.

“This is how we’re doing it. Take it or leave it.”

Lydia steps forward, saying, “Let’s make this quick. Give me your hard sell so we can get out of the cold.” 

“Hard sell? We have nothing of the sort,” Evelyn says warmly. “Just an offer. You’ve got such a mind, haven’t you? Why not put it to work?”

“I think MIT could do that just fine,” Lydia tells her.

Judith shakes her head. “You think that’s all your mind is worth? Dare to dream bigger. We could use someone like you.”

“Exactly. _Use_. Sorry, I’ve been there, done that, and I didn’t really like the outcome. I make my own choices now. I do what _I_ want. I’m not some _tool_ you can use. Not happening.”

“You could do things—“

Evelyn cuts Judith off, saying, “Your potential is greater than you can imagine. Now, where are the rest of you? You wanted to do this with an audience? We’re missing a few.” Most of this is said to Derek, and it’s chilling because it feels _directed_ at someone or something. He tries not to think of anyone in particular.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Lydia asks, annoyed. “You wanted me here, I’m here. Let me tell you, you’re not doing a very good job of convincing me.”

“You’re an incredible girl, Lydia Martin. You attract an incredible crowd. It takes a certain sort of person to love you.”

Lydia freezes at the same time he does. “Jackson’s not here. I don’t know where he is.”

Derek shakes his head, saying, “She’s not talking about Jackson.” He looks at Evelyn. “Are you?” 

As she shakes her head, a thousand thoughts fly through Derek’s, and suddenly, everything makes sense.

“You don’t want Lydia at all,” he accuses. “This isn’t about her. You thought that you could lure— What, did you think that if she agreed, he’d offer himself up as a _trade_? Like a sacrifice?”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Lydia whispers, smelling like worry. 

“You’re a talented girl,” Evelyn says, “but you couldn’t engineer a resurrection on your own. But there’s another among you who might have the potential we’re looking for. All you need is a spark. A spark, and a boy in love. It’s amazing, the power of human love.” Derek knows those words, and he knows the lying mouth they came from.

“Where’s Peter?” Derek hisses. “What did he tell you?”

Judith gives him a glare. “Everything we needed to know. We haven’t seen him in weeks, but what he told us was _very_ informative.”

“Yeah? Well, next time you see him, can you give him a message for me?” Lydia asks, then punches Evelyn in the face. She nearly goes down. There’s a collective shock that Derek can feel against his skin as Lydia shakes out her hand. When Evelyn stands, there’s a trickle of blood coming down from one nostril.

“Oh, that was a bad decision, little girl,” Judith says. Her hair floats in the air like she’s underwater and Derek can feel a charge of _something_. 

“Lydia, _run_ ,” he tells her. “ _Get out of here._ ” She listens to him, _thank God_ , sprinting off. He hears Allison and Isaac chase after her for protection. 

Derek holds his hands out in front of himself, trying to placate the two women. “You tricked us. If you’re friendly with Peter. You know what he did to her. Don’t blame her for it.” The hair on his arms raises as whatever energy they’re controlling spreads. There’s a crackling in the air, too loud. He can’t hear his pack behind him. All he can hear is that crackling and a steady, low hum.

“She’s impudent. We could kill her for less,” Evelyn says. She wipes her nose and the blood smears, but he’s paying attention to how dark her eyes are. Both of them, actually; their eyes are not so much black as devoid of light.

“ _She deserves it, cur_ ,” Judith says. Her voices echoes.

Derek shakes his head. “Not after what he did. Peter’s twisted. Part of him was burned out in the fire. Whatever he told you was meant to weaken us enough for him to kill me. That’s all he wants. You can’t trust him. He only wants power. Just leave us. There has to be someone else you can take under your wing, but you’re not getting any of my pack. It’s not happening.” 

Evelyn’s dark eyes narrow. “If there were, why should we leave you peacefully? After what you’ve done?” 

“It’s not worth it. We’ll fight you. And even if all of us die, Stiles will never agree. It’s simply not going to happen, and if you think it is, then you know _nothing_ about him. You can’t win here. I’m allowing you to leave in peace, so _do_. Because I won’t offer again.”

“ _So sure of your pack, but you trust no one_ ,” Judith hisses. “You don’t know how to trust or love, and that’s really a shame, isn’t it?”

Evelyn nods slowly, a smile spreading across her face. “Since you’ve offered _so kindly_ to let us leave freely, we’d be terrible guests if we didn’t offer something in return. A parting gift.”

Suddenly, Derek’s right palm starts to burn, and as he raises it to look, he hears, “ _You’re having trouble trusting in love, so here’s a little help_.” There are changing numbers on his palm, counting down from an hour. “All you have to do is kiss the right person, your rightful love. For a little motivation, we should let you know that as soon as the numbers run out, one of your pack will die, and another each minute after. All you have to do to make it stop is kiss the right pair of lips.”

“That’s not fair, you can’t—“

“Derek, your clock is ticking,” Evelyn says with a smile.

“Anyone?” Derek asks, looking between them. “You have to narrow it down. That’s impossible!”

Judith looks at Evelyn. “Should we give him a hint?”

“You’re looking for a human,” Evelyn tells him, like that should be obvious. “Good luck. And don’t worry, we’ll be gone by the time you find who you’re looking for.” 

They laugh and the air goes terribly dark for a moment, and then he’s just standing in the woods. He can hear his pack and the Argents behind him again, and the cottage looks deserted.

“Derek! What happened? You disappeared! Where are they?” Scott asks, rushing towards him. Derek turns, looks down at his hand. 

Fifty-seven minutes left.

Fifty-seven minutes until someone dies. Fifty-eight until another.

 _Human_ , they said. 

Derek looks at the group, then at Scott. “Call Allison and Lydia back,” he tells Scott, then despite a disgusted twisting in his gut, walks up to Chris Argent. 

He’s going to have to explain. This is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to him.

“I’ve been cursed,” he says quickly. “One of you is going to die unless I— I have to find the right human and—“ He blinks back his embarrassment. “I need to kiss you,” he tells Chris, getting a disgusted look. “I’m not excited about it either, but I’m not going to let someone die. I need to rule you out.” Derek looks at Victoria, asking permission. She gives a slight nod. 

“This is awful,” Chris says, coughing. 

“Tell me about it. Can we just get it over with?” Derek asks. Chris nods and they both lean forward enough for a solid peck, grimacing. As soon as they pull back, both wipe their mouths. 

“I could have lived without doing that,” Chris mutters as Allison says, “What the _hell_ did I just walk into?” 

“Derek got cursed,” Danny explains. “Sleeping Beauty-type thing. It can only be broken by the right human’s kiss…So I guess that means you’re up.”

“Whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” Scott says, placing himself in the way of Derek’s path to Allison. “I mean, there’s no way she’s the right one. Like, aren’t their guidelines or something?”

“He has a point,” Lydia says. “I’ve read enough fairy tales to know that it’s usually, like, _true love_ ’s kiss that breaks spells and whatnot.” Derek looks away, rubbing the back of his head as he nods once.

Allison makes a noise and says, “Oh my God. And you thought my _dad_ —?“

“I _didn’t_ ,” Derek says, still not really looking at anyone. “It was a just-in-case thing. Same with you. And Lydia. And everyone else. I don’t— I think it goes without saying that I’m not _in love_ with anyone.” 

“Thank God,” Isaac says. “I mean, I don’t think I could handle it if you were like, fated to be in love with Mr. Argent. Ew.”

“I’m _right here_ ,” Chris reminds them. “But yes, thank you, and now we’re leaving because if I have to see Derek kiss my daughter, I might not be able to restrain myself. Keep in touch.” He and Victoria get the hell out of there basically, and Derek looks at Allison and Lydia.

“Well, I’ll go first,” Lydia says, stepping forwards. “This is my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t punched her, she probably would have left you alone.” Derek shrugs because _yes, probably_ , but he’s going to choose to blame Peter for this one. If anything, it’s proof that Derek made the right choice in killing him. 

Lydia has to press up onto her toes to kiss him, very lightly and sweetly. Her lip gloss sticks to his mouth, and he wipes it off. 

“Nothing?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “Well, good. You’re not really my type. Allison, go for it.” 

“This is so _weird_ ,” Scott says with grossed-out face as Allison moves around him and kisses Derek for a painfully awkward second. 

“No?” she asks. 

Derek shrugs, holding up his palm. “Nope.”

“Now what?” Boyd asks. 

“ _Now_ , I run back to my car because I have just over forty-five minutes to find the other three humans I know,” Derek says, backing away in the direction of his car. The group follows him, unfortunately.

Scott goes pale, saying, “You’re going to have to kiss Deaton, aren’t you? Thank God I won’t be there for that.”

“Who else?” Allison asks.

“The Stilinskis,” Isaac answers with a little pop of his eyebrows. 

Lydia stops suddenly and sighs. “You might want to stop there first. I have a feeling you’ll have more luck there.”

Derek shakes his head because that’s _so_ last, so far last he’s not even thinking about it. _Won’t_. “Deaton first. He’s closer.” Derek looks back at them all. “Get yourselves home. It’s a school night.”

 

The drive to the clinic takes eighteen minutes. By the time he’s inside, Derek’s palm is reading just under twenty-one. 

It takes a minute and a half to explain the situation, about five seconds to rule Deaton out, and then he has to _go_. If he speeds, he might be able to get to the Stilinski place in nine minutes. If traffic goes well. 

 

Traffic doesn’t go well. There’s construction on Main, so he has to take a detour, losing precious time. And all the while, something Deaton said is fighting with him. He’s trying to keep it down, put it away and lock it somewhere no one will find it, but all he hears is _I think you know who you need to talk to_. He’s not going to think about it. 

 

It takes longer to explain it to the Sheriff. First, he has to explain that they’re all alive and healthy, _then_ that he didn’t kill anyone, and _then_ the whole stupid business about what he needs to do. And that’s weird. Because it gives him all sorts of _badwrong_ vibes to kiss the Sheriff in a vaguely romantic context. It’s just not right.

In all honesty, he stalls a little. Because he’s afraid. Because the Sheriff says that Stiles is right upstairs, and Derek’s at the end. There’s no one left, really. So it has to be him. Or someone’s going to die. But he just _knows_.

He’s never climbed the stairs so slowly. It’s like walking to his death. It’s worse than that. Because Derek is okay with dying, he’s made peace with it, but this is worse than a death sentence. Each creak of the stairs, the sound of Stiles in his room, the rustle of him bouncing a foot, the music coming from the headphones he’s wearing, it’s all _deafening_. It’s funeral bells.

When he opens the door, Stiles rips off his headphones and jumps to his feet.

“You’re okay?” he asks, eyes quickly examining Derek for possible injuries. Derek takes a step forward. Looks at his hand. _Fuck_.

A minute and a half.

“If I don’t kiss you right now, someone we know is going to die,” Derek says quickly. The only sound is the quickening thud of Stiles’ heart as the adrenaline kicks in and the beat from his discarded headphones. “I need your permission.”

In the pulse beats while he shuts his eyes, needing a yes, he hears footsteps, and before his eyes are open all the way, Stiles is grabbing him by his ears and planting one on him. It’s something of a shock, and Derek’s back hits the wall with the impact of it. Stiles’ mouth is warm and soft, but urgent in a way none of the others were. And it’s not just a peck. It’s chaste, sure, but Stiles’ lips move against his for so long he stops thinking about it. Because it’s the kind of kiss he knows he’s going to remember. Because he can’t think over the fact that it’s something he didn’t realize he was longing for, that it’s wrong wrong wrong. But it’s Stiles, and it feels like Stiles, like panic and fear and determination, and Derek doesn’t know how to stop.

Stiles pulls back almost as soon as Derek’s able to put a full thought together. 

“Was that good?” he asks, and all Derek sees is the darkened curve of his lips, feeling his pulse under his palms because somehow, Derek’s hands made it to Stiles’ back. And Derek’s thinking _wrong_ , but Stiles asked _good_ , so he nods. Dumbly. And then he realizes that Stiles isn’t asking about the kiss, not really, and Derek looks at his hand. There’s nothing there. 

Oh, _fuck_.

“I have to go,” Derek mutters, not meeting Stiles’ eyes. His whole body aches, sinking into the ground with the certainty that this was a mistake. That maybe he should have let someone die. But _no_. That’s wrong. Can’t think like that. That's selfish.

He takes the stairs two at a time, not thinking about the look on Stiles’ face when he slipped out the door. 

The Sheriff grabs his arm just as he gets to the door. “What happened? Did it work?” Derek looks at him for a second, then bites his lip, looks down, nodding. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it fucking _worked_ alright.” He shakes his head, wanting to crawl out of his skin. His throat’s too small for the lump in it. It hurts and he can take pain just fine, so why are his eyes starting to burn?

“Hey, come on,” the Sheriff says, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. “Let’s get out of here.” Derek lets him shepherd his body into the cruiser and they drive. Derek’s not sure where. Probably because he’s breaking at the seams. He can’t handle this, can’t—

He lets out a growl, gripping the armrest with claws.

“Hey! I can’t explain any weird scratches, so you’re going to need to calm down.” The full shift is coming, he can feel it, and he can’t breathe with how much he wants to be something else. “Okay? Breathe, Derek. In…That’s good.” Derek breathes, trying to force his body down into the right shape. He’s just not really sure which one that is. “Listen to me, Derek. Just breathe, okay? You need to breathe and this will all be fine. _Breathe_.” 

Derek forces himself to focus on the feeling of air moving in and out of his lungs, on the rapid staccato of his pulse. He breathes and breathes until his heart slows down and his nails are blunt.

When he lets himself become aware of his surroundings, he sees that the car’s stopped. They’re off the road, on the cliff overlooking the town. The Sheriff gets out of the car, goes around to the trunk. Derek manages to get the door open, climb out, shut it. The Sheriff has a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand. 

“For emergencies,” he says, then goes and sits on the hood. “Come on. You look like you need a drink.” 

Derek sits, takes the offered bottle, swallows down a few burning gulps. 

“Don’t worry. Stiles used to get panic attacks all the time.”

It’s not what he would’ve thought to call it, but if the shoe fits.

“What happened?”

Derek shrugs. “I had a couple worst case scenarios. That maybe it would be Allison or, hell, even her _father_ , but Stiles didn’t even make the list. It was so far beyond the worst. I still can’t— I just _can’t_.”

“You’re afraid of him?” The Sheriff passes the bottle back. Derek looks at him.

“I’m afraid of _me_. Of what I could do to him. He’s too good for me. And you know how things cycle. I can’t do that to him. I won’t. He deserves better than that. Than me.” Derek swallows what he can and passes the bottle back with a cough.

The Sheriff smiles. “You know, _I_ ’m supposed to be the one saying that he’s too good for you,” he says. “But I think that the reason you think it shouldn’t happen is why it could work. I trust you with him. You love him.” Derek chokes on that. The way he says it, so simply. Like it’s nothing.

“How do you know for sure? That I— you know,” Derek asks.

“Son, I’ve spent seventeen years loving that kid. I think I know what it looks like by now.” The Sheriff looks at him softly. “And I know my son well enough to know that he has feelings, too.” 

“It’s not…It _can’t happen_. He’d regret it. I’m no good for him.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for,” the Sheriff says gently. “I wouldn’t give my blessing if I didn’t think you were a good man. I _trust_ you, Derek. With the most precious thing in my life. Because I don’t think you’ll screw this up.”

Derek shakes his head quickly. “I can’t. I just can’t do it.”

“That’s okay. I’m not trying to pressure you. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. That’s all there is to it.” The way the Sheriff looks at him is so…accepting, like he won’t judge Derek for anything he does, that it’s a little bit like drowning. But comfortably. Warmly. The scents he’s projecting are like something baking in the oven in winter. It’s like a sensory hug, and Derek’s not sure what to do with that. How to respond. So he just sits there and breathes and tries not to think about how wrong the Sheriff is for giving this to him. But he feels _loved_ for the first time in a long time, and he’s too weak to let it go.

 

Derek ends up spending the overwhelming majority of the next day in bed. It’s not something he’s proud of. The idea of dealing with anything just seems impossible what with the existential crisis he’s definitely having. Isaac doesn’t come up to bother him, but Derek only goes downstairs to eat when he knows Isaac won’t be there. He doesn’t need the questions or the judgement or any of it.

The next morning, he calls Marena and arranges an earlier, longer appointment for that afternoon. She’s one of two people he could possibly handle at the moment, and he’s too ashamed to ask the Sheriff to comfort him some more. 

After Isaac leaves for school, Derek goes for a long, long run. He comes back with just enough time to shower and get dressed before he has to leave. In the car on the way to Marena’s office, his stomach churns and he tries not to think about it. About anything. He’s not going to throw up or do anything dramatic. He’s fine. He can handle this. People realize they’re in love everyday, and _they_ don’t die of it. Everything’s fine. 

“What’s wrong?” Marena asks as soon as he sits down. 

 _Everything_ , Derek wants to say. But he clams up. Saying it? That would just be ridiculous.

Marena sighs. “You’ve never adjusted an appointment, Derek, save for when you cut your Mondays and Wednesdays a couple weeks ago. I know something’s up. And you’re _obviously_ distressed, so why don’t we get it out there so we can work on solving it?” She’s right, she is, but he feels like an idiot. Sitting here, it all just feels ridiculous.

“I might be overreacting to something,” he says after a moment. “A little bit.”

She gives him a look: _Go on_.

“I…Stiles may have kissed me and I might have come to the conclusion that I’m in love with him, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“ _Ah_ ,” she says, settling back into her chair. “Alright. When did this happen?”

“Wednesday night.”

“Okay. So. I imagine that after you kissed, you two didn’t sit down and talk about it.”

Derek looks down. “I may have run away,” he admits very quietly.

“So you’ve been freaking out about this on your own since then?” she asks, her tone making it clear that she knows that’s _exactly_ what he did.

“Basically. The Sheriff talked to me after. He, well, he gave me permission, it’s just…I can’t. Not to Stiles. It’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong?”

Derek makes a broad gesture. “Everything. All of it. Loving him, I mean. It’s the worst thing you can do, loving someone.”

“Why is that?”

“Either it gives them the power to destroy you completely, or you end up destroying them. The only people I ever loved were my family and Kate. All of them are dead. I won’t let that happen to him.”

“Love doesn’t have to destroy, Derek,” she tells him with a certain softness to her voice. “It can be a powerful force of good. It can build you up, make you stronger, make you whole.”

“Maybe I’m broken, then, because nothing _good_ has ever happened to anyone because I loved them.”

Marena sighs, then shakes her head. “Well, everything that can be broken can be fixed. I know all your experience has proven otherwise, but love can be a positive, fulfilling thing. It’s possible to love someone and be happy with them. Did your parents love each other?”

“Of course,” Derek says, frowning.

“That’s not the case for everyone, you know. But if they could love each other and love you and love the rest of your family, then that means that it has to be possible that love can make people happy. Kate’s influence is not the only love you’ve seen in your life, and maybe it’s time to find a better example. From what you’ve said, the Sheriff loves his son very much. Have they had it the worse for that?” 

“It hasn’t been easy. Stiles had to lie to him for a long time, and they still worry about each other constantly.”

“I never said it was _easy_ , but they’re happier for it, aren’t they?”

Derek shrugs. “Maybe. I guess.”

“As I understand it, they have a healthy relationship. I think you need to take note of healthy relationships because you’ve spent the past few years fixating on this one, major unhealthy one you’ve had, but there are so many other options out there. Part of personal growth is learning how to form good relationships, relationships founded on trust and love. You’ve made some good progress with that so far, but that doesn’t mean you should stop working on it. A healthy romantic relationship might be the next step.”

“You’re telling me that I should date a sixteen year old for _personal growth_?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all. I just said a romantic relationship, not who with. In fact, I would suggest that you test the waters with someone you would feel more comfortable dating. Someone your age, so that it’s not an issue. My concern is that your strong feelings for Stiles might be more difficult to handle in a first relationship. Your feelings for him seem to cause you a lot of stress and discomfort, and I think it would be better for you in the long run to approach the source of that discomfort slowly.”

“So you think I should…start dating?” The concept sounds utterly foreign to his ears, but maybe it shouldn’t. He’s at an age where most people start looking for relationships. Obviously, he’s not most people, but he trusts Marena and considering how unlikely it is that he’ll have feelings for anyone he starts dating, there’s nothing to lose. And it’ll keep him away from Stiles, meaning that it’ll keep Stiles safe.

“It’s just a suggestion. An _option_ ,” she tells him gently.

“Okay,” he says, and her eyebrows raise. “I’ll try it.”

“Good. That’s good to hear.”

He smiles back at her, and it’s almost half genuine.

 

That night, it takes two hours for Derek to muster the courage to be a mature adult and go talk to Stiles. It’s likely Stiles didn’t think anything of what happened. It was probably no big deal to him. Sure, there’s another part of him that wonders if that was Stiles’ first kiss, but he tells that part of himself to kindly shut the fuck up. Positivity is the key. And the best case scenario is that Stiles is just wondering why one of his friends hasn’t come around for a few days. Because they are friends. Platonic, non-romantic, familial friends. That is what they are.

The Sheriff answers the door and gives Derek a weird sort of smile. “Hey, Derek. How’s it going?” He doesn’t step aside to let Derek in.

“I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to Stiles,” he says, and the Sheriff rubs the back of his neck with a sigh. Not a good sign. 

“Uh, well, he told me not to tell you, but he’s at Scott’s. So if you really want to go see him, say you sniffed him out or something. But, uh, he’s kind of pissed at you, actually. I tried, but he’s stubborn, you know?”

Of course. He has every right to be pissed off. Derek came to his room, demanded a kiss, then left with no explanation. That’s bizarre and upsetting behavior. It’s no wonder Stiles is upset.

“Can I leave him a note or something?” Derek asks, because he’s thinking he can just write out an apology and they can go back to how they were before. It’ll all be fine.

The Sheriff sighs and says, “Yeah, but if he asks, I’m saying you climbed in through the window. He got pretty angry at me this morning, saying I was on your side, and, well, I’ve gotta be on his, you know? He’s my kid. Never mind that helping you _is_ being on his side, but I thought it wasn’t my place to tell him that you have feelings for him.” Derek looks at him, a little surprised because the Sheriff doesn’t usually talk so fast. “It’s been a _long_ couple days in this house.” He moves to let Derek in.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for him to be upset.”

“I know that. And he’ll figure it out. I think he was just hurt that you left so abruptly and that I went after you instead of him. I tried to explain that first responders help the most critical first, but that didn’t really help. Maybe you’ll have better luck.” He smiles encouragingly, and Derek heads upstairs.

Stiles’ room is different than Derek had left it. The mattress is halfway off the frame, clothes are everywhere, and it looks like a couple of Stiles’ old trophies fell off the top of the bookcase. Two of them are broken, but he didn’t pick them up. There’s scuff marks on the wall, too, and the window is nailed to the sill. For the Sheriff’s benefit, Derek goes over and pulls the window up, yanking the nails out of the wood with a squeak. Then he goes over to the desk. Stuck to the computer screen are a bunch of post-it notes reading stuff like:

_People I want to murder:_

_Derek_

And:

_People who deserve to be buried up to their necks in the Sahara Desert so that a horde of fire ants can eat them alive:_

_Derek_

There’s also a crude doodle of a muscle-bound figure with heavy eyebrows being crushed by an anvil. 

It’s childish, and that should make it hurt less, but it doesn’t. This is so far from what Derek had wanted. Apathy would have been preferable. The fact that Stiles is hurt is not something he can handle well. It’s painful, which he still thinks is stupid, but apparently, Derek was dumb or blind enough to let Stiles sneak into his hear— to become someone he cares about. Completely the opposite of what he wanted. But now Stiles is hurt and Derek wants to make it better any way he can. 

Only there’s no way Stiles will let it happen. Stiles doesn’t want to talk to him. Stiles is done with him. And he’s better off for it. Derek can never ruin him if Stiles doesn’t like him. If Stiles hates him, if he doesn’t trust him, he’s safe. There’s no way Derek can hurt him. This is how it has to be.

Derek doesn’t leave a note.

 

That night, Isaac doesn’t come home. He sends a text— _At Scott’s_ —but the apartment feels wrongly empty. It’s selfish to want to be near his pack to get a hold on his emotions. The shouldn’t have to deal with that. It’s why he’s been avoiding them. But he wants them there all the same.

When he goes to bed, he feels cold in a way that no number of blankets can fix.

 

There’s no Isaac the next day, either. 

 

Well, not until he’s fixing himself dinner that evening, when Isaac bursts in with Scott, Boyd, Danny, Allison, and Lydia in tow. Derek’s mood is lifted just by being in the same room as them, but he doesn’t say anything.

“So, here’s the deal,” Scott says, standing in the doorway of the kitchen area. “We’re all going to sit on the couch and we’re going to do this right, okay?”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Do _what_ right?”

“We’re having an intervention,” Isaac says with a little self-satisfied smirk. 

“And you can fight it all you want,” Lydia tells him, “but we’re here as your support system, not as your enemies, and we’ll do what we have to for your well-being.”

“Well, not just yours,” Scott says.

“But we should sit down for all of this,” Boyd says, jerking a thumb at the couch. 

It’s a testament to how off-kilter Derek is that he goes. He lets them guide him to the couch so Isaac and Boyd can sit on either side of him. Being in contact with them feels nice, grounding, even though it makes him feel guilty for using them. 

“You need to work things out with Stiles,” Scott says like he’s trying to very politely drop a bomb on him. “And I mean _soon_. Because it’s driving everyone crazy.”

“I’m pretty sure he yakked about how much he hated you for a solid eight hours last night,” Isaac tells him. “My ears were in real, physical pain.”

“It’s bad,” Boyd assures him.

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder, saying, “He invited me for coffee today because he apparently thought I wanted to spend _three hours_ in a Starbucks listening to how much of a shithead you are. He was _wrong_.”

“Yesterday in English, he wrote an angry poem about everything he hates about you,” Allison says. “I asked him if there were ten things and he was going to read it to the class, and he didn’t even catch my Julia Stiles reference, okay? It’s _that_ bad.”

“If he starts one more sentence with ‘that asshole, Derek,’ I’m actually going to murder him,” Danny says, and Derek can hear in his pulse that he means it. 

“There’s nothing I can do,” Derek tells them. 

Scott throws up his hands, making an angry noise, and says, “ _Yes, you can_. Fix it, Derek. You have the power. Just _talk_ to him.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“Of _course_ he wants to talk to you,” Lydia says like it’s the simplest thing he could possibly grasp. “He’s giving you the cold shoulder because he wants you to work for it. Then he wants you to grovel. Creatively. Before you give him an in-depth explanation of why you did what you did. And then, he’ll act apathetic when he accepts you back into his good graces. Trust me, he’s told me exactly what he wants _several_ times.”

“That’s…complicated,” Derek says, not sure if he wants to believe Lydia and do what she says or cut Stiles off for his own good. 

Danny gives him a look. “Well, what you did gave him a lot of complicated feelings.” Derek looks at him, then at Lydia, then at Scott. 

“It was kind of an asshole thing to do,” Scott says, meeting his look. “I mean, you didn’t even give him an explanation, you just _went_ for it. And you know him. That’s big.”

“I didn’t _just go for it_ ,” Derek grinds out. “I told him what had to be done so that no one would die. He chose. And he didn’t need to know the rest anyway. That would just complicate things.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Scott says, but Danny cuts him off.

“Okay, Stiles isn’t my best friend, not by a long shot. But he’s been asking me for help with his gay awakening or whatever for _months_ , and I’m just saying, man, it wasn’t a cool thing you did. You lead him on and then _left_. That’s not cool, especially since you know he has a thing for you.”

Derek rolls his eyes and says, “Stiles _doesn’t_ have a thing for me.”

“I’m obligated to stay silent on the grounds of best friendship,” Scott says.

“But I’m not,” Isaac tells him. “And I told you about your boner face a while ago, Derek.”

Derek shakes his head. “A boner isn’t feelings.”

“Okay, can we establish that it’s not just his dick that likes you?” Lydia says. “Because it’s not. And he’s hurt because he thinks that you don’t like him back after making him think you might. So just tell him that you want to ride off into the sunset with him and we can all move past all of this.” 

“I don’t. It’s not happening. I don’t see him that way,” Derek says, and he thanks Kate for this one, for his ability to lie to someone who can hear his heart. The secret is the same as what keeps him human: pain. Just enough to focus on so that his pulse doesn’t pick up in anxiety. A single claw in the crook of his elbow does the trick. 

The whole group stares at him like they don’t believe him, but they’ll believe their ears and his heart. 

“Fine,” Scott says at last, “but you still have to talk to him. Apologize. Explain. Do _something_. Because this is on you. You made him upset, so you need to fix it.” Scott looks at him, faltering. “And don’t break his heart, okay? Or I’ll come after you.”

“He won’t be the only one,” Lydia says, and everyone else nods. Jesus. They love him. They all love Stiles. It’s not just Derek who’s gotten caught up in him; Stiles has that effect on everyone, even if they didn’t know it until now. They’ll protect him, the same way Derek will. Part of him wonders if it’s _because_ of Derek, if his feelings have bled into the his pack. It’s definitely possible. 

He’s just fucking up all over the place, isn’t he?

“I’ll talk to him,” Derek says, looking at them all even though it’s difficult. “ _If he’ll let me_.”

 

Stiles is in his room. Derek can hear him as soon as he pulls into the driveway. He considers going to the front door, but it’ll give Stiles time to realize he’s there and escape. It’s better to just get this over with. So he shoots the Sheriff a text and walks around the back, looks up at the window. The light’s on, bright in the dark. 

Stiles is listening to angry music, something with heavy guitars and yelling.

Derek climbs the tree quickly, jumps onto the bit of roof below Stiles’ window. The nails have been hammered in again. Stiles is laying on his bed, eyes squeezed shut, air drumming with a pair of pencils. Derek slips pointed nails under the frame, prying it up from the sill. He’s slow, and very quiet. The music in Stiles’ earbuds is too loud, probably just shy of painful, but it gives Derek cover. He’s inside and sitting in Stiles’ desk chair by the time the song changes and Stiles opens his eyes. And nearly falls off his bed in shock. 

There’s a lacrosse stick in his hands when he composes himself. “I figured you’d be smart enough to get the message,” Stiles says, jerking his head at the nails in the window, “but I guess I was wrong. So let me be clear: _you’re not welcome here anymore_.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, and he realizes that every time he’s said that since his family burned, he’s been in this room. 

“I’m not talking to you,” Stiles says. He drops the stick, grabs his laptop and starts typing something. “They can say it better than me.” 

The laptop starts playing the synthetic strings intro to _Bye Bye Bye_. 

Derek looks at it, then at Stiles. Looks back at the laptop pointedly. Back at Stiles.

“ _Really_.”

“Hey, just because it’s ’N Sync doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

_Hey baby, come on…I loved—_

Stiles hits the pause quickly. “Okay, you get the gist. Whatever. _The point is_ , I’m done. With you and the stupid things you do. Stop coming around here. You can talk to my dad at work. I don’t want to see you here anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek repeats.

“ _Not good enough_.”

“You want me to say it in another language?” Derek asks, trying to come off as annoyed rather than desperate.

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I want you to _mean_ it.”

“I do,” Derek says. “You’re the only one I ever mean it with.” Stiles rolls his eyes, scoffs. Shuts the lid of his laptop.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. Just man up, asshole. You freaked out because you don’t like me but some stupid witches think you do. Just admit that you got scared and you ran away instead of sticking around to explain. Because you’re a coward and you don’t give a shit about me, and that’s _fine_ , you just need to own up to it.”

It would be the good, self-less thing to say that, to just tell him that he doesn’t care, but Derek is weak, especially when Stiles smells like self-loathing. “I do care. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do it, and I realized at that moment that it was because they were fixated on you. They wanted me to think that it was you because we were _something_ , but they just wanted to punish you and me because you were the one they were after all along. I didn’t figure that out until I was here. It was too much to explain, and I didn’t want to do that to you in the first place. I’m sorry.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment, thinking. Sighing heavily, he runs his hands through his hair. 

“I feel terrible about it,” Derek tells him honestly. “I don’t know if you’ve ever…if that was the first time…”

Stiles laughs, a weird sound, drops his hands to his lap and says, “No, man. That was Scott. We played gay chicken back in middle school. And a few weeks ago, they made me and Isaac kiss and make up. You weren’t the first, is what I’m saying, and even if you were, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. I was just pissed because you took off and _took my dad with you_ , and then I had to hear about _why_ you did it from Lydia. That wasn’t fair.”

“I know. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, but it’s okay. I get it now. We’re good,” Stiles tells him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

Derek smirks, says, “So you don’t want to bury me up to my neck and let the fire ants get me?”

“ _Nope_ ,” Stiles says, popping the _p_ sound. “But keep being a smart ass, and I might change my mind.” 

He grins, and Derek returns it because he’s weak and an idiot for Stiles, and his forgiveness feels like a wave of relief. Heady. And he’s stupidly beautiful, and Derek wants to just touch his cheek, but he stays in the chair. Holds onto the arms for strength.

“You wanna watch a movie? I’ve got a putlocker link for Looper,” Stiles offers, and Derek _should_ say no, but he nods. 

They end up squished together on Stiles’ twin-sized bed with the laptop on their laps. They’ve been this close before, but it hasn’t felt like this. Like Derek’s paying more attention to the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest than anything else. He’s acutely aware of every movement, every cringe, every noise. The warmth of Stiles’ body leaks like radiation. For two hours, Derek is in a bizarre place of agony. And then the movie’s over. The clock in the upper corner of the screen reads just after eleven. 

This is the part where Derek leaves.

“Do you wanna watch something else?” Stiles asks. “I’ve been in the process of rewatching X-Men for a while.”

“Sure,” he says. Because he’s a terrible hedonist and Stiles will be the death of him.

 

Stiles falls asleep before the movie ends. Derek lets it play on in case he wakes up, but when they hit the credits, he hits the pause. It’s difficult to move slowly enough not to disturb Stiles, but he closes the laptop and reaches up to set it on one of the shelves of the headboard. Stiles stirs as he’s leaning back, sits up while Derek’s frozen. 

“Did you know you have, like, four colors in your eyes?” Stiles asks sleepily. “You do. There’s blue and brown and green and grey, but it depends on how the light hits them.”

“I have to go,” Derek tells him.

“No you don’t. You could stay. Scott does it all the time.” 

He should get up, apologize, be a good person, but he looks at the softness of Stiles’ eyes and mouth, and he nods. Stiles grins and paralyzes Derek for a moment by thrusting his hips into the air, but then Derek realizes that he’s shimmying out of his belt and jeans. The urge to watch is overwhelming, but Derek gets up and flips off the light, shucks off his own jeans in the dark, and climbs back into bed. Stiles shifts over for him, facing out towards the room. Acutely aware of the warm air between their backs, Derek faces the opposite direction. It’s not a long time before he gets to sleep, but it feels like an eternity.

 

He wakes in the night. It’s dark, just before dawn, and Stiles is whimpering, like he’s in pain. You’re not supposed to wake people from nightmares, that’s what people say, so he doesn’t shake Stiles, but he does press closer, his chest touching Stiles’ back, and wraps an arm around him. Maybe even in his dreams, he’ll realize he’s safe. He smells salty, like he’s crying, and that makes Derek ache. So he presses forward, his nose brushing behind Stiles’ ear.

Very quietly, he whispers, “ _You’re fine. You’re okay. You’re safe._ ” 

It wakes Stiles, and he curls into himself, pulling Derek over him like a blanket. 

“You’re safe,” Derek repeats. 

“I thought I was dying,” he says, voice shaking. “I had to save everyone, but I was dying and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move. I knew that I could save everyone if I could just _move_ , but my body wouldn’t do it. I didn’t have enough blood left. You were all looking at me, and I couldn’t do _anything_.” He coughs, a little wet. “I have that dream all the time. I die all the time, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Derek whispers, nosing (definitely not nuzzling) behind his ear. “ _Thou wast not born for death, Immortal Bird_.” 

“What is that?”

“Keats,” Derek tells him, letting Stiles curl back into his chest. “You’re never going to die as long as I’m alive,” he promises. “I won’t let it happen.” 

“Yeah?”

Derek nods a little, cheek brushing against Stiles’ hair. “I promise.” 

“I won’t let you die either,” Stiles says softly, sounding like he’s already falling back asleep. “Never.” 

“Go to sleep,” Derek tells him, aching inside. The last thing he wants is for Stiles to protect him; it’s too dangerous. But Stiles means it. For better or for worse, he means it.

 

Derek wakes up at the same time as Stiles, to the Sheriff knocking on the door. 

“If you’re downstairs in ten, we can go get breakfast,” he says, voice muffled a little by the door’s thickness. Stiles unfreezes, tries to untangle himself from the sheets and Derek’s limbs, and ends up falling on the floor. “You okay?”

“Fine!” Stiles calls. “Is it, uh, alright if it’s breakfast for three?”

“You’re not trying to tell me you’re pregnant, are you?” the Sheriff asks, a little more concerned about that than Derek’s comfortable with.

“Jesus Christ, _no_ , Dad! I don’t have a uterus, okay? But, uh, there might be a third party at the table. That’s all. It was late last night, and, well…”

“Derek’s always welcome. I’m glad you two worked things out.” He means it, and Derek hears his hand touch the other side of the door, his small sigh. 

“It’s creepy that you guessed that,” Stiles tells him, getting up. “We’ll meet you downstairs in a few.” 

The Sheriff taps the door too quietly for Stiles to hear and heads off down the hall. 

Stiles looks at Derek and sighs. “You can borrow something of mine if you don’t want to wear that shirt again.”

“That didn’t go so well last time,” Derek reminds him.

“Yeah, well, I have bigger shirts for sleeping in the bottom drawer. One of those might fit you.” Derek raises an eyebrow. “I’m a horrible person, I know, and I would have told you if it weren’t for Danny, but can we move past it?”

Derek shrugs. “I’m past it,” he says, and pulls his shirt over his head. There’s a sound like something catching in Stiles’ throat, and Derek would be lying if he said part of the reason he did it wasn’t to see if Stiles would react. He’s not a good person. There are things he’s not above. The special hell has a warm spot for him all lined up. He knows this.

“You did that on purpose,” Stiles says as Derek pulls on a _Beacon County Sheriff’s Department Annual Hamburger Cook-Off and Three-Legged Race_ t-shirt. It’s soft and faded from wear, and the year on it makes it the Sheriff’s. It fits well enough, though, even if he feels like a thief in it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, picking his jeans up off the floor.

“ _Right_ ,” Stiles tells him. “I gotta say, I never figured you for a briefs kind of guy.”

“Only teenagers and gangsters wear boxers under jeans,” he says without thinking. Stiles looks a little affronted. “My sister used to say that to me.”

Stiles smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. Derek finds his shoes and looks down at them intently so Stiles can feel comfortable enough to change. He does so quickly, with his back to Derek, and he nearly falls over trying to hop into a pair of jeans. It’s hard to not smile, but Derek looks at his shoelaces and pretends he’s actually some kind of adult. Not some stupid kid with a big heart. Because he’s not. He’s really not. His body just needs to remember that.

 

The Sheriff claps him on the shoulder, grinning, when they come downstairs. 

“Oh my God, stop it, Dad, you’re embarrassing yourself,” Stiles says, shoving at him, but he’s smiling a little, at the corners of his lips. 

“My car’s first in the driveway,” Derek says, feeling awkwardly afloat in the scent of so much happiness.

The Sheriff nods and says, “Stiles can go with you. He knows where we go.” 

 

And they go, and they eat, and it’s like nothing ever happened. It’s like a family he’s a part of, and Stiles nudges him with his shoulder sometimes, and the reminder that he’s there is something like a fresh miracle. It’s dangerous and it makes him a bad person, but he’s not going to think about it. Too much.`

 

When Derek gets home, Jackson Whittemore is sitting on his couch.


	5. Cross your heart to take me when you leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from The Civil Wars' "C'est La Mort".
> 
> This chapter is a long one, so the last chapter probably won't come until the weekend. If you've seen Open Gate, there's a scene at the end that was the inspiration for this whole story. Also, I'm sorry. 
> 
> Rest assured that the general, overall conversation about Derek and Stiles' relationship isn't finished. I have a lot of feelings about how certain things are often handled in le fandom and tbh I could write an essay on why I've written things the way I have but whatever. Just don't assume that there's necessarily going to be a sex scene at the end. I'm not there won't be, just don't get your hopes up.
> 
> Warnings at the end.

Jackson Whittemore is sitting on Derek’s couch.

 _With his feet up on the coffee table._  

What?

And more importantly, Derek hadn’t sensed him. He can _now_ , but he should have known before he even got out of the car. But then, he’d been distracted, hadn’t he? By the simple image of Stiles’ fingers curving around his fork as it glinted in the light streaming in from the window.

Isaac’s staring at Jackson like he’s having an elaborate and drawn-out visualization of his violent death. He shoots Derek a _save me_ look. 

“I gotta say, Lydia said over skype that your new place was at least _moderately_ tasteful, but this is impressive for you,” Jackson says, checking for dirt under his nails.

“What are you doing here?”

“Fall break. I have a week off. I convinced my parents to buy me a plane ticket.” 

“You should have bought one for somewhere you’re wanted,” Isaac says sharply, glaring.

Jackson looks at Derek. “Should I leave, then? Because I was under the impression that _I’m still pack_.” 

“You’re welcome here,” Derek says, more to Isaac than Jackson. “If you want to be here.”

“They didn’t give me a choice about the move,” Jackson says. “They thought staying here would be _traumatic_ for me. _Beacon Hills is a poisonous environment for you_ ,” he says in an deep, imitated voice. “But I guess I can get why they might think that. Given that I stabbed myself with my own fingernails at a lacrosse game, I mean. Couldn’t exactly explain that the principal was using me as his murder slave after I asked someone to turn me into a _werewolf_. I’d rather be in Baltimore than a psychiatric ward, if you know what I mean.” 

Derek nods; Jackson had said as much in a text when he’d left. 

“Have you seen Lydia and Danny yet?” he asks.

Jackson shakes his head. “No. I thought I’d check in with you first. Wolves are territorial animals, aren’t they?”

“It’s different because you’re pack. You’re free to move around here as you please,” Derek says. “How’ve you been handling things?”

Jackson shrugs. “I haven’t killed anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“ _That’s_ something new and different for you,” Isaac mutters under his breath. Derek gives him a sharp look.

“It _wasn’t_ , for the record. But I know it must have been hard to control your shifts so far from the pack. Speaking of, you should go see your friends,” Derek tells Jackson. “They might have something of a surprise for you.” Danny’s whole ordeal is his business, and Derek gets the feeling that he’d rather be the one to tell Jackson himself.

Jackson narrows his eyes, but gets up.

“Am I going to like it?”

Isaac snorts. “Maybe a little too much.” That’s _not_ necessary.

“It’ll be fine,” Derek reassures him. 

When he shuts the door behind him, Isaac lets out a long, overly-dramatic sigh. Derek rolls his eyes.

“I’m torn,” Isaac says, “between the pressing needs of asking you to get rid of him and begging you not to tell me how good your makeup sex with Stiles was.”

“Didn’t happen,” Derek says with a look meant to shut him up about it.

“So you’re going to go jerk off into a pool of your tears then?”

Derek flicks him on the forehead. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” Isaac says, nodding. “Just don’t forget to open a window. Jizz and self-loathing aren’t a good combination for the old sniffer.”

“You think you’re funny,” Derek says, “but you’re really not.”

Isaac grins cheekily.

“Don’t be such a little shit.” 

“You wouldn’t wanna keep me around if I was nice.”

“ _Not_ true.” 

It’s one of those jokes that isn’t _actually_ a joke, not really, and Derek’s thankful that he’s gotten able to catch them. They might not be at a good place for a heart-to-heart about how Derek _does_ want Isaac to be part of his pack _permanently_ , but that doesn’t mean he can’t convince him in the small ways.

Flicking Isaac on the nose, he heads upstairs to shower. 

His towel’s damp, which means Isaac must have used it. And he only does that to make a point.

“Yours are the _blue_ ones,” Derek says with a groan. 

“ _Pre-emptive pay back for letting Jackson stay_ ,” Isaac returns from downstairs. Derek grabs Isaac’s towel, which is at least _more_ dry, and turns on the water. He puts on the stereo, telling himself, uselessly, that it’s not for background noise. If nothing else, he won’t be able to hear Isaac’s judgement. 

And sure, he allows himself to make it a _long_ shower. Clean-up’s easier in the shower, even if it means he can’t take as long as he might sometimes like. 

His pathetic feelings from last night about being close to Stiles have apparently carried over into his fantasy life. In the too-familiar stage of his imagination, he’s at the foot of Stiles’ bed. Thinking about it, he should’ve figured it all out sooner, but this time, Stiles is actually on it too, which is more than a little disconcerting. He’s up against the headboard, making a right angle with Derek. His eyes are on Derek and his hand’s in his pants. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, though.

This time, Derek’s fresh out of the shower to account for his water-slick grip. If this were a porno, or if it were the kind of thing he wanted, maybe Stiles would be taking in his body, but he’s not. His eyes never leave Derek’s. Even when he unzips to give his hand a little more room to work. 

Derek just watches him.

But the thing is, he _wants_ to touch. That’s a bit weird, and it scares him more than a little, but it makes sense in a way. He wants Stiles to feel good. That’s simple enough that he can be honest with himself about it. And Derek thinks that he might be able to do that if he touched him. In his fantasy, Stiles is going to get off either way, sure, but Derek could make it happen sooner, if he wanted. It’s a _possibility_.

He doesn’t do it.

Can’t. 

It’s too close to something he wouldn’t be able to live with himself for. He doesn’t know if he can control himself. It’s _likely_ that he could, but he’s afraid to test it, even in his mind. There’s already too much of himself he wants to cut out. 

Derek makes a frustrated noise into his fist as he jerks himself quickly. It’s wrong to touch, but looking is fine. There’s no harm in that. It’s not quite innocent, but it almost is. It’s possible to look without wanting to damage, to look with innocent eyes. Maybe he doesn’t have those, but he can try to see as if he does. 

If he starts letting himself think about touching, he might slip and actually try to _do_ it. Stiles deserves better than that. 

(But a part of him thinks that Stiles _wants_ him to touch. That Stiles just wants _him_. He doesn’t love Derek, that’s ridiculous and naïve, but he’s _attracted_ to Derek, at least, and he would like it if Derek did something about it. Probably.)

It’s that thought, that horrible, ugly thought that drags him over the edge into a guilt-tinged orgasm. Panting, he watches the shower stream wash the come down his body and into the drain and doesn’t think. There’s just the hot water, the steam, the water swirling down the drain.

 

Everyone ends up at Derek’s that night.

It’s _kind of_ an accident.

Lydia, Danny, and Jackson come over with a shoddy excuse and, on Lydia’s part, a lot of elbowing. Isaac calls it an ambush on his person, and calls Scott, so not long later, he and Allison show up. With messy clothes and guilty looks, and though Isaac rolls his eyes, he sits them down on the couch for something of a stare-off. And then Stiles gets there, a little late because he thought to pick up Boyd, so it’s apparently a pack gathering. Which is probably a good idea. 

After Derek tells everyone to stop acting like kindergarteners, Jackson and Scott share a very awkward looking handshake, and Stiles makes a crack about Godzilla that’s not exactly supposed to be funny but isn’t quite mean, either.

Derek puts some music on while everyone tries to fill Jackson in on the past seven months. Danny’s told him about the whole incubus thing, but there’s a lot of pieces he’s missing. It takes a little while to get him up-to-date, long enough that Derek orders a few pizzas.

It’s a little more like a family with Jackson there. For him, too. Derek watches him, feeling both fond and guilty as he looks at his first beta and sees that he’s _comfortable_. In who he is. A little less needlessly aggressive. He makes a few snide remarks to Scott and Stiles and Isaac, but there’s not a lot of feeling behind them. He and Lydia look more comfortable together, too, in an easy sort of affection that Derek doesn’t remember seeing from them. Like they’ve both grown into people they find worthy of the love they had all along. 

By the time they’re all done trading stories, it’s late. No one has school in the morning, but they’re exhausted from talking so much, from the emotional experience of being reunited with a pack member. Boyd has to go first, since he has to be up early to baby-sit his sisters all week, and Scott and Allison volunteer to take him home, though neither of them looks particularly tired. Stiles stays when they leave, starting to banter a little with Isaac when Lydia clears her throat.

“ _Someone_ needs to talk to Derek about something,” she says, looking at Stiles and Isaac. “In _private_ , if you please.” Her look is intimidating, to say the least.

“Milkshakes at Mo’s?” Stiles asks Isaac quickly, getting up. 

“Good idea.”

They’re gone in under a minute.

“Yes?” Derek asks, lounging in his arm chair. He’s more than a little amused.

Lydia gives Jackson and Danny a look.

“We were wondering,” Danny starts.

“Barely, it was just a curiosity thing, not really important at all,” Jackson says. Lydia clears her throat.

“They want to know if Danny can only feed from you still,” Lydia asks. “Because Jackson has decided to _martyr_ himself to the cause.” There’s a bit of sarcasm in that, but it’s more _annoyed_ than upset. Probably because neither of them are able to ask for themselves.

Derek thinks about it for a moment, then says, “I think it’s possible. Your control has gotten good. You could try it, but if anything goes wrong…”

“You should supervise,” Lydia suggest with a wicked smirk thrown in Jackson’s direction. “Just to be sure they can handle it.”

“ _I hate you_ ,” Jackson hisses at her. 

“It’s not that big a deal,” Danny tells him.

Lydia smiles sweetly. “Listen to Danny. It’s no big deal.”

“If it helps, I have absolutely zero interest in watching,” Derek says honestly, “but I think I’d rather watch than be in on it. No offense,” he adds to Danny.

“None taken, man. I know the score.” 

Derek nods in appreciation and then, for a full minute, the four of them just _sit_ there.

“This is so stupid,” Jackson says before launching himself at Danny’s face. It’s…abrupt, to say the least, but Derek would rather not sit her all night. 

There’s a little bit of a glow, he realizes. Around their chests and mouths. An energy thing, presumably. He’s really only paying the least amount of attention to see if Jackson looks like he’s shriveling up and dying, which, thankfully, he doesn’t. And when he’s pretty sure that it’s not going to happen, Derek looks away.

It goes on for a while before they break apart. 

“That felt _weird_ ,” Jackson says, touching his chest. 

“I don’t have any complaints,” Danny says, shrugging with a little smile.

Jackson elbows him. “I _told_ you I was your type.” It’s clearly some sort of inside joke, and Derek doesn’t mind missing out on it. A pack isn’t about its alpha. That’s not the point. 

“Okay, _now_ that we’ve settled that you two can make out to your heart’s content,” Lydia says, “can we go home? I promised my mom I’d be in at a decent hour. This wasn’t supposed to take so long, but you _losers_ chickened out.”

“Isaac was here,” Jackson defends. “It’s none of his business.”

“For the record, if you have sex with anyone, it’s _everyone_ ’s business. Just a side effect of our olfactory system,” Derek tells him. 

Jackson rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that.” From his heartbeat, well, it’s ambiguous. 

“No judgement. One of my aunts was with a woman and a man. Werewolves have heightened emotions. It’s not unusual for one of us to have feelings for multiple people. Most of us tend to be laid-back about these things.” 

Lydia narrows her eyes at him and lets out an angry sigh. “So it’s not the gay thing then. I just don’t understand.”

“What?” he asks, blinking. _That’s_ a non-sequitur.

“I know for a _fact_ that whatever reason you haven’t gotten it on with Stiles is on your end, and I can’t find a single good one. There’s literally _no_ reason for it.” For a second, Derek considers pointing out the age thing, but that would be admitting that there’s something there, and he’s not going to do it.

“Have you considered that I just don’t have any interest in him like that?” he asks mildly.

“It’s not much of a stretch,” Jackson says.

“You haven’t seen them,” Lydia tells him. “Danny, back me up on this.”

“I dunno. Derek’s pretty straight, from what I understand.” That’s not what it is, not really, since the only two people he’s had real feelings for have been of each gender. But it’ll do for an excuse.

Lydia shakes her head. “I’m going to figure it out what’s your issue, and then I’m going to talk it out of you.”

“Good luck,” Derek tells her, “but it looks like you’re going to have enough on your plate already.”

 

Stiles and Isaac come back fifteen minutes after the other three leave. 

“Okay, so I didn’t know what kind of shake to get you, so I got chocolate and strawberry and I’ll have whichever one you don’t want. I’d offer you Isaac’s, but I’m pretty sure it’s a natural law that only one person in a group of people is allowed to be weird enough to like vanilla. So. Chocolate or strawberry?” Stiles holds out two shakes. Derek takes the chocolate. “Thank God. I mean, chocolate’s not bad, but strawberry’s better. Good team work.” 

Isaac swallows a mouthful of shake and says, “Can we watch a movie or something? I wanna go to bed soon.”

“Why? Think it might be your last night before you have to double up with Yoshi?”

“Oh, he’s not gonna be here often. Between Lydia and Danny, he’s not going to need a place to sleep.” 

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “Is that how it is?” Isaac rolls his eyes. Takes another sip of his shake like he’s got _insider information_. Which he doesn’t. Probably. 

“Duh. They used to spend just as much time at his house, and now he’s coming back to his best friend as a literal sex fiend? What do you _think_ is going to happen?” 

“Goddammit,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I swear, everyone’s getting laid but me.” 

Isaac gives him a dry look. “Don’t look at me because it’s not happening.”

Stiles chokes. “Oh God, _never_. That would be _terrible._ ” 

Isaac nods sagely.

“The _images_. They _burn_.”

“Yep. Not gonna happen. But I can think of someone else who isn’t getting it in.” Isaac looks pointedly at Derek, who rolls his eyes. He forces his heart to stay slow, forces himself to not give anything away.

“I think Boyd would kill me if I propositioned him,” Stiles says. Isaac was too obvious; there’s no way Stiles missed it. Which means he’s choosing not to bring it up. Which means they can avoid an awkward conversation. _Good_.

“Probably. Because you’re an _idiot_ ,” Isaac says, looking sharply at Stiles. There’s a buzz, his phone, and he pulls it out. “Can one of you take me to Scott’s?”

“Am _I_ invited?” Stiles asks. It’s a little snide, a little hurt, and Derek wants to take that feeling away from him.

“If you want. We’re going to watch the third Spiderman.”

Stiles makes a face of pure disgust. “ _Ye of little taste! Heathens!_ ” He shakes his head. “But seriously. Never again.”

“That’s what I thought. Ride?” Isaac looks at both of them.

“I’ll drop you off on my way home,” Stiles tells him. 

It’s for the best. That’s what Derek tells himself. That the less time they spend alone together, the better. That’s how it needs to be. 

 

Derek ends up sitting alone with his milkshake. 

It’s not pathetic if he doesn’t let himself think of it that way.

That’s how he gets himself through it. 

And then, a little while after he finishes, he gets a text. Stiles. Of course. Because no one else texts him this late.

**Can’t sleep. Wanna come over for a movie?**

He _knows_ what he should respond to that. What the right thing to do is. 

 

Ten minutes later, he’s at the house. 

The Sheriff’s home. In the living room. Derek knocks because it’s polite and there’s no reason to sneak around.

“Don’t forget you have work in the morning,” is all the Sheriff says when he lets Derek in. It’s a little embarrassing how this is somehow normal. No: it’s _worrying_. What’s embarrassing is that the Sheriff knows _why_. 

“So, you have a selection to choose from,” Stiles tells him when he comes in. He makes a broad sweeping gesture at his DVD collection. “If you don’t like anything, we can look for something online.” 

Derek starts looking. Some of the titles are familiar, some not. There’s a few television shows, the entirety of Battlestar Galactica and Veronica Mars, a few odd seasons of Supernatural and Criminal Minds. 

“What’s Twin Peaks?” Derek asks. 

“Uh…” Stiles rubs his head, nervous for some reason. “I don’t think that one’s a good idea.”

Derek gives him a look.

Stiles sighs heavily. “It’s about a small town and the mystery of who killed a girl named Laura.” 

“Ah. Well.” It’s nice of him to try to protect Derek like that. “Maybe next time. Why don’t you pick something?” 

“In the mood for Fight Club?”

Derek shrugs. “Sure. It’s been a while.”

They end up on Stiles’ bed again, and it’s bad, he knows it is, but Derek can sense a pattern forming. It’s a bad idea, but it’s not hurting anyone. It’s just torturous for Derek. That’s okay. 

 

The Sheriff loans him a pair of sweatpants for their run. 

They don’t talk. It’s pre-dawn, a rare time for silence. But it feels right. Their feet hit the ground in time with each other. Their breathing is synchronized. It’s a good thing. 

After, the Sheriff makes him coffee and lets him have the first shower. It should feel wrong, that he’s being so nice when Derek’s this dangerous thing locked on his son, but maybe that’s not how he sees it. Maybe he sees the Derek who can’t quite force his hands to stop shaking when Stiles asks him to sleep over. 

It’s dangerous, though. It’s not healthy. 

He needs to do what Marena said. He needs to try to date. To find someone to focus on who isn’t Stiles. Maybe a woman, if only to eliminate any sort of comparison or similarity. 

 

After work, Derek ends up at a coffee shop. This is how it works in movies. This is where people meet nice people. A bar is for a hook-up, but a Starbucks? That’s a place for a potential relationship. Right?

He’s determined to make it work. The sooner he can find someone, the better it’ll be for everyone. 

So he orders and checks the place out. There’s some high schoolers in one corner, a couple, a woman in yoga pants who’s wearing headphones, an older man reading a newspaper, a family with an embarrassed preteen girl, a pair of women in deep conversation, and no one else. None of them look like people he should try talking to. That’s okay. Someone will come in. 

With that in mind, he sits at a cluster of arm chairs with the book he’s been reading, Marquez, and his drink. He positions himself in such a way that he looks approachable, friendly, welcoming. And he waits. 

After almost an hour, a woman with bright blue eyes and her hair in a bun and a laptop sits in the chair diagonal to him. Derek glances up at her twice, no more, and pretends to read. He listens. She’s typing, fast. She has a little bit of a stuffy nose. She taps one foot occasionally. She’s not paying much attention to her drink, so it takes her a long time to set an empty cup down.

And Derek does a fantastic job at looking like he’s deeply invested in reading his book. 

He’s about to ask her if he can buy her another coffee when she sets her laptop down on the table next to her and gets up. 

“You want a refill?” she asks. He nods, caught off-guard, and hands her his cup. 

“Just milk,” he answers. She goes to the counter, and he congratulates himself on apparently doing well. She’ll come back with the coffee, and they’ll talk, and he’ll ask her to dinner, and everything will be fine.

When she comes back, she hands him the coffee without a word and sits back down with her laptop. She looks like she’s into whatever she’s doing, and it would be rude to interrupt. He turns back to his book. Sips at his coffee. The whole enterprise is more difficult than he’d thought it would be. 

And then she shuts the lid of her laptop and looks at him. 

“Enjoying the book?” she asks.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful.”

She takes a sip of her coffee. “The movie’s pretty good, too. You should check it out when you finish.”

“Thanks. I will.” 

“I’m Sarah,” she says, getting up to offer a hand for him to shake. She has a firm grip.

“Derek.”

“I know.” She shrugs. “It’s on your cup.” 

He smiles, remembering to be charming. People like his smile. 

( _Smile, Derek! Why don’t you ever smile?_

No. 

She doesn’t get to have a say.)

“What do you do, Derek?” Sarah asks, and he thinks he’s left an awkward silence.

“I work at the Sheriff’s Department. What do you do?”

“I’m a professional blogger. And I teach a night class on film theory at BHCC.”

Derek nods. “That’s impressive.” She shrugs. Looking at her, she’s probably about three years older than him. She has to be, to be teaching.

“It’s probably not as exciting as law enforcement.”

“It’s not that exciting,” he tells her. “Trust me.” 

Her eyebrows rise. “Really? Seems like it’s been an exciting year for the Sheriff’s Department. I mean…I’m sorry, you must have know those people who died.” 

“I wasn’t on the job then. But I’ve heard they were very nice. It was a tragedy,” he says, thinking that sounds like a normal thing to say.

“I heard. It was all over the news.” She shakes her head and smiles. “Sorry, that’s depressing. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. Look, I don’t mean to be too forward, but would you like to go to dinner sometime?” That’s good. Polite, not too aggressive, but to-the-point. Not the smoothest, but it could’ve been a lot worse.

“Yeah, sure. Here, let me give you my number. You can call me sometime.” She pulls out a pen and writes her number on a napkin. He takes it with a smile that she returns. Then she glances up at the clock on the wall above him. “Oh, shoot. I have to go. Sorry. But it was nice meeting you, Derek.” Her face is bright as she packs up her bag, and she offers a little wave as she goes. 

After a moment, Derek smiles to himself.

_Mission: accomplished._

 

Over lunch the next day, Derek tries to be casual about it.

“I met someone,” he says over what the Sheriff calls a _solidarity salad_. 

“There’s nine thousand people in this town,” the Sheriff says, “it’s likely you’ll meet a few of them.” 

“No, I mean— I asked her out.”

The Sheriff looks at him, his fork hand dropping a couple inches. “You sure that’s a good idea, son?”

“Marena suggested it. I told her about Stiles. She thought it would be a good idea to try another relationship or two. It’s a lot to put on him. It wouldn’t be right. And it’s not healthy for me to just see him all the time and…Well, I’m not going to _pine_. I want to do something about it.”

“Okay. It could be a good experiment.” 

Derek nods. “I think it’ll be a good thing. And she’s nice. Pretty. Smart. I need to have a relationship that’s not Kate, and I don’t want Stiles to be my training wheels. He deserves better than that.”

“Alright. If that’s what you want to do, I support you one hundred percent.” He’s serious about it, eye contact holding steady. His mouth is a slight curve, just enough to be reassuring and optimistic.

“Thanks,” Derek says. “Really, I— I mean it.”

The Sheriff smiles, nods, then looks down at his salad. “Do you think if we put bacon on this, it would taste less like soggy cardboard?”

 

He calls Sarah the next day. The “three day rule” has been engraved into his mind, but he doesn’t mind her thinking that he wants to see her. A day early isn’t overly eager. She doesn’t sound uncomfortable about it over the phone.

They agree to meet at a decent sushi place Friday night. She mentions needing a reprieve after Thanksgiving leftovers, and he remembers that the holiday’s a day away. The Sheriff had invited him over for dinner, mentioned bringing a side, but he doesn’t get the feeling that it’s a big deal in the Stilinski household. 

When he sees Isaac that night, Derek asks about his plans. Scott’s, it seems, but he says that it might end up being a joint thing between the McCalls and Argents, and Isaac’s not sure if he wants to be a part of that. Derek extends the Stilinski invitation, but Isaac seems even _less_ interested  by that. 

“That sounds _at least_ ten times more awkward. Not happening. But bring home leftovers.” 

Derek doesn’t tell him about Sarah. Not yet. After their first date, if they agree to go on a second. Then Derek _might_ say something. But as soon as Isaac knows, everyone else probably will too. News doesn’t stay secret in a pack. And Derek feels weird about Stiles finding out. He knows that it’s stupid to want to appear available, but that’s part of it. 

(The sick part of him wants to let it circulate to see if Stiles will be hurt, but he ignores it.)

 

That night, Stiles texts him about watching another movie. It’s okay. He has a distraction. It’s fine. 

So he goes. 

They watch Tropic Thunder, and Derek tries not to fall for the sound of Stiles’ laugh. When it’s genuine, when there’s no sarcasm or snideness behind it, it’s a great sound. Not that he doesn’t sometimes like the particular timbre of his snide laugh, but this is more open. Even when Stiles tries to be quiet and laughs into his arm because his dad has gone to bed. It’s a purely happy moment only Derek is witnessing, and he loves it for that. 

Stiles barely even says anything after, just tosses Derek a sleep shirt after quirking an eyebrow at him. 

They don’t go to bed back to back. After the first night, they lay down facing the same direction, but with space between them. In that space, Derek curls his arms into his chest to hold himself back. He lets Stiles fall asleep first. And then he presses forward, just an inch or two. Stiles sinks into it a little, but not close enough to quite touch until Derek presses his palm against Stiles’ back, just between his shoulderblades. It happened on accident the second night, but Stiles had slept through the whole night. This is a pack thing, offering comfort. There’s nothing sexual about it, at least. It’s about comfort and safety and protection. He’s telling Stiles’ unconscious that he’s right there. That he’ll always be right there.

 

He runs with the Sheriff.

He showers. 

The three of them eat breakfast together. 

Derek feels like he could get used to the pattern of mornings here, and that’s a problem. He’s not trying to move in with the Stilinskis. He’s trying not to become a permanent fixture of their lives. He’s trying to allow himself a way to escape if he needs to save them. There’s not enough distance. 

But it’s Thanksgiving and the whole department is on-call but off, to be with their families. So there’s no work, even though he would appreciate the distraction. 

The Stilinski men shoo him out of the house not long after breakfast so they can cook. Derek has to do green beans, anyway. He promised Stiles to do a vegetable and the Sheriff that there’d be plenty of bacon. It’s the best of both worlds. 

Isaac’s not even up yet when he gets home, but he puts on some coffee. The smell will wake him up gently. Derek’s been grocery shopping, he has what he needs, but he’s idle. Idleness isn’t comfortable. He’s already been for a run, so he goes upstairs, shuts his door, opens a window, and resolves to take as long as he wants. 

It’s slow. 

He thinks of a scenario this time. 

The Sheriff’s on the late shift, and they’ve just finished a movie. They’re going to go to bed. The lights are on. Stiles ditches his jeans, flops his body onto the bed. One of his hands scratches his belly, low, right at that trail of hair Derek’s glimpsed too many times to be okay with. His fingers settle just at the waistband of his boxers. 

_You gonna get undressed? Or are you just gonna stand there all night?_

Staring at him, Derek’s hands find his belt, his button, his zipper. He unzips his jeans _slow_. Stiles raises an eyebrow, and his hand pushes just a little further into his boxers, just past his nail beds. When he pushes his jeans down, he does it in inches at first. Stiles’ eyes flick between Derek’s and the black material of his briefs. And then Derek just lets them fall, takes a purposeful step out of them, towards the bed. Watching him, Stiles gets up on one elbow. Derek pulls his shirt over his head, lets it drop to the floor, and all he can smell is Stiles’ arousal. Pure and unrestrained. 

 _I think you’re trying to kill me_.

Shaking his head, Derek stalks to the bed. He climbs onto it like he’s going to settle on top of Stiles, but he turns at the last minute. They’re side by side and most of Stiles’ fingers are in his boxers. The fabric doesn’t hide the fact that he has an erection. He catches Derek looking. 

_You’re really going to kill me now, aren’t you?_

_No._

And Derek looks at him and slips his hand into his own underwear, and that’s enough for Stiles to groan and let his hand go all the way. The air between their bodies is hot and everything smells like Stiles and sex. Derek’s too hard, knows it’s going to be over soon because the scent of pre-come is heady, but he pushes his underwear down past his balls so he can get a good stroke. Stiles makes a little noise at that, and Derek hears the slap of skin on skin speed up. It’s dry, it has to hurt a little, but Stiles doesn’t look like he can stop. Derek licks his palm good and wraps it around his length. Feels the blood beneath his skin. 

Next to him, Stiles is watching, taking everything in. His eyes are darting around, but the stop when they meet Derek’s. It’s like they can’t look away. Derek matches Stiles’ pace, using his other hand to work his balls a little. Stiles is biting his lower lip into a white line, his face is pink, and Derek can see it so _vividly_. The burning gold of his eyes sends a shiver through him. He’s going to lose it in a minute, it’s going to happen, and then Stiles surges forward and kisses him square on the mouth. 

That’s all it takes. 

Derek’s arching into his fist, stroking himself through the shivery hot pulses of his orgasm. His stomach and chest are a mess, but all he can feel is a ghostly pressure on his lips. That’s too far, probably. They’ve never touched before in his fantasies. There’s a reason for that. But the kiss, he thinks, is okay. Perfectly chaste, and it wasn’t his effort. It’s Stiles’ decision. It’s something, in his imagination, Stiles wanted for himself and for his own reasons. He didn’t do it for Derek, and it seems like a part of that is somehow a contradiction. 

But maybe that’s the danger. An empty fantasy doesn’t have wants, but base it on a person and it will. That’s how it has to be. Because what Derek wants is Stiles. Nothing else, nothing more. Just him.

 

Thanksgiving is, indeed, a small affair. The three of them, a modest spread of turkey, gravy, rolls, potatoes, and green beans, and a store-bought pumpkin pie for dessert. The potatoes are the same amazing ones from the Hunter’s Moon, and when Derek compliments them, Stiles says it’s his mom’s recipe. It’s quiet for a moment.

“She would’ve liked you,” the Sheriff says. “She wouldn’t have let you get away with _anything_.” There’s a little something extra in his look, and Derek knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“It’s true,” Stiles agrees. “I miss her.”

Derek gives him half a smile. “I miss my mom, too. She was amazing, but I never appreciated her enough, I think. I didn’t realize that I wouldn’t have forever.” 

“What was she like?” Stiles asks softly.

“Quiet. Strong. And she loved us so much. The whole pack. She had this great capacity for love. Laura was like that.” The _I wish I was like that_ is something he won’t ever say.

“There’s different ways to love,” the Sheriff says. “Some people love a lot of people, they spread it out. Some people love just a couple people deeply. It doesn’t mean there isn’t the same amount of love there.”

Derek shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s quiet.

“So _this_ got deep and depressing fast. Can we eat?” Stiles looks at the two of them, his right hand tapping his fork in the air. Derek takes a big bite of mashed potatoes and thinks that this is something like being a part of a family again.

 

“Are you staying over tonight?” Stiles asks as they’re stacking dishes in the sink. 

He shouldn’t. Not twice in a row. He needs an excuse.

“It’s a little cramped,” Derek says lamely. 

Stiles sighs, raising his voice. “Well, it’s not _my_ fault that I only have a twin!” 

“ _I have yet to see a Christmas list!_ ” the Sheriff shouts back from the living room. Stiles grins.

“Okay, so is it just me, or did that sound promising?” 

Derek smiles to himself. Ten months ago, the Sheriff wouldn’t have come anywhere close to considering buying a bigger bed so his son could sleep comfortably with a one time wanted fugitive.

“I mean, _you_ have a bigger bed, don’t you?” Stiles asks. It’s definitely meant to sound innocent, curious, but he can feel Stiles testing the waters, trying to see if this is something that he’s okay with Isaac knowing about. Maybe he thinks Derek’s embarrassed about their sleepovers. He’s not, it’s just that Isaac wouldn’t really understand. He’ll see what he wants to see.

“Yeah. You could come over to my place tonight. If you wanted.” Jesus, he sounds so awkward about it. It’s too obvious.

Stiles shrugs. “It’s okay if you don’t want me to. I won’t be offended.” That’s a lie, Derek hears it, and this is where he fails as a person. It’s easy to have Stiles’ best interests at heart when it’s a mortal danger they’re in, but here, when he has to weigh Stiles feeling hurt and alone with the possibility of getting too close, close enough to damage him, Derek’s too weak to think long term. He can smell Stiles’ abandonment and it’s sour like old milk.

“Come over. I want you to. My bed’s twice as big as yours and you can drive Isaac crazy.”

“Alright,” Stiles says, brightening a little. “But I’m using that ballroom you call a shower. It’s a thing of beauty.” 

“Deal.” 

The Sheriff doesn’t say anything when they leave. It might be that he’s too engrossed in the game on, but he probably just doesn’t care. 

 

It’s not just Isaac who’s there, Derek realizes before he even gets out of the car. Jackson’s presence is less immediately familiar, but Derek would still know it anywhere. They’re fighting over what to watch on TV, he hears before he and Stiles make it up to the door.

“Dude, it’s _Thanksgiving_. Who doesn’t watch football on Thanksgiving?” Isaac pleads. Jackson’s got the remote, though, and he’s holding it out of reach.

“Football is for _pansies_. There are two types of people who should wear pads: girls on their periods and toddlers learning how to rollerblade. Not men with three hundred pounds of muscle. Calling it a sport is an insult to the history of athletics.” 

Isaac makes an exasperated noise. “It’s an American _tradition_ , you elitist douchewad.”

“It’s a _stupid_ tradition.” Isaac leaps for him, scrabbling to get the remote. Jackson redirects his momentum, but then they’re both on the floor, wrestling and yelling at each other.

“Should we, I dunno, _stop them_?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs. “It’s healthy to relieve a little aggression every now and then.” He walks around the two and plucks the remote from Jackson’s hand. “What do you want to watch?” Stiles grins as Isaac and Jackson make noises of protest.

“You pick tonight.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Jackson says. “Why don’t you just watch Brokeback Mountain and sit and _pine_ for each other all night?”

Derek gives him a look, annoyed rather than angry, because he’s not going to give himself away. “Grow up, Jackson.” The teenager rolls his eyes, shoves Isaac off of him so he can get up. 

“I’m not watching sci-fi or a sports movie,” Isaac says.

“ _No_ chick-flicks,” Jackson says. “I’ve been at Lydia’s all week and I am _done_.” 

“I know just the thing.” Stiles sinks down to the floor, digging under the coffee table to pull out a DVD. _Apparently_ , there’s a small collection down there that Derek doesn’t remember buying. “This is a good one,” Stiles says, holding up a battered copy of The Rundown. 

“When did that get there?” Derek asks. 

“I’ve been bringing over one or two each time I come over. Thought you might want something to watch every now and then, since you don’t seem to have any of your own.” 

“He also leaves rose petals on your pillows,” Isaac says with a smirk. The look Stiles shoots him is not one Derek wants to be on the receiving end of _ever_. Though he probably has. 

Derek takes the movie, sets it up, and they all end up on the futon. Isaac and Jackson are at his sides and Stiles sets up a pillow against Derek’s thigh so he can stretch out. For the entire duration of the movie, Derek wants to just reach out a couple inches and slip his fingers into Stiles’ hair. Just to touch him in a simple, affectionate gesture. It feels like it would be natural. His muscles keep trying to move his hand unconsciously, so he has to make a serious effort to restrain himself.

When they hit the credit sequence, Derek nudges Stiles off him, gets up, and shuts off the TV. 

“It’s getting late,” he says, stretching out a little. 

“Bed?” Stiles asks.

Jackson sits up, saying, “Where am I sleeping, by the way?” Derek gestures to the couch and the living room as a whole. 

“Knock yourself out. Isaac kicks in his sleep.” 

“I don’t. But if you try cuddling with me, I _will_ punch you in the dick,” Isaac warns. 

“Wasn’t going to.” Jackson turns to Stiles. “Are we going to fight for the couch like men, or do you want to draw straws or some bullshit?” 

Stiles scratches the back of his neck, glancing at Derek. “Well, uh—“

“Stiles is with Derek, dude. _Duh_ ,” Isaac says before Derek can figure out a good way to say it. 

“Ew. Gross. Oh my God. We are going to be _right_ downstairs. That’s psychological trauma, man,” Jackson says to Derek.

“Seriously,” Isaac agrees. “Open the window. Light some scented candles. Stuff a towel under the door. It’s gonna be worse than you jerking off, and I am not dealing with that, got it? Pretend you’re trying to smoke a blunt and we’re the DEA. _That_ level of caution, okay?”

Derek’s going to kill him. In at least fourteen different ways. He’s _actually_ going to kill him. For _so_ many reasons.

“Get _off_ it,” Stiles says with a groan. “You _know_ that’s not what’s going on. So give it a rest or I’ll tell Jackson about that boner you made me promise not to tell anyone about.” 

Isaac looks _terrified_. “You wouldn’t. Jesus, I was only _joking_. That’s too far.” 

“ _Come_ on.” Stiles grabs Derek’s arm. “I need to figure out if you’ve got memory foam in the bat cave up there. For _reasons_. Leave these two idiots to sort themselves out.” Derek goes with him, throwing a serious glare over his shoulder at Isaac. 

“What was that you were going to tell Jackson?” he asks. Isaac starts shaking his head at Stiles as they walk up the stairs.

Stiles shrugs. “It’s nothing, really. I just usually make sure to have at least one good bit of blackmail on everyone I know. It’s a precautionary thing.” 

“What do you have on me?” As soon as he asks, he _knows_ , and he doesn’t want Stiles to say it out loud.

Derek’s door closes behind them and Stiles says, “You _snore_.” 

Then he looks at Derek’s bed. Looks at Derek. Looks back at the bed. And _throws_ himself on it, spread-eagle. 

“ _Really_?” Derek asks.

“Dude.” It’s a little muffled by Derek’s pillow. “ _Dude_. Why did we ever not sleep here?” Stiles twists himself up onto one elbow. “That’s a _bad_ decision on your part. You’ve been keeping things from me, mister. It’s too late now. I’m never gonna leave this beauty. _Never_.” 

Derek shrugs, curling his toes as he wonders whether he should keep his socks on or not. 

“What if I stay here forever? What if I just refuse to get up? You’d have to bring me food.”

“ _Or_ I could just pick you up and take you downstairs.” 

Stiles shakes his head with mock-sadness. “Harsh, man. Besides, you wouldn’t do that. Not to little old me. Right?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” He heads to his dresser, pulls out a shirt for Stiles to sleep in and one for himself. He tosses Stiles’ and hits him neatly in the face. 

“That was unnecessary.”

“I beg to differ,” Derek says, pulling his shirt over his head. 

“Ugh, I _hate_ you.” There’s no real venom in it, just the edge of _something else_ that Derek can’t quite place. Rolling his eyes again, Derek slips out of his jeans. His sleep shirt is _old_. Laura’s old team shirt that she’d cut the neck and most of the sleeves off of. It’s been through a few hundred washes and it doesn’t smell like her anymore, but it’s soft and it’s only if you look _very_ closely that you can make out _Beacon Hills Water Polo_ across the chest. 

( _It used to slip off of one of her shoulders, revealing the thick straps of her suit, the zipper up the spine. She’d hated water polo, actually, because she’d been_ good _. It had been a violent sport, but where the other girls had come out of the water with gouges down their arms and thighs like badges of honor, Laura had always come out seemingly unscathed. And then she’d begged Mom to teach her how control her healing, and the first time she’d come out of that pool bloody, she’d been beaming. From the stands, holding that “TEAR ‘EM UP, 26!!” sign, Derek had matched her grin, knowing that it meant she was better, stronger, more in control than he’d ever be. It meant she’d be his alpha one day, just as his mom was Peter’s._ )

“Where’d you go?” Stiles asks gently.

“Laura.”

Stiles nods, pulls back the covers. “Come on. Let’s go to bed, big guy.” 

Derek flips off the light and crawls up onto his usual side. Stiles slips under the comforter, facing him. It seems that, like Derek, he’s not quite tired enough to fall asleep. 

“Do you want to talk about her?” Stiles asks. Derek shakes his head, sinking into a good spot. They’re close, whisper-close, facing each other. When they were small, he and Laura used to make forts and whisper to each other like this, like it meant no one could hear.

“How’s Scott doing with Jackson?” Derek asks, changing the subject. “I know they were never exactly _friendly_.”

It’s a second before Stiles responds. “I think they’ve accepted that they’re just not going to like each other. They’ll keep the peace, but they’re not going to be friends, at least not for a long time. It’s just not their dynamic.” That sounds reasonable. It makes sense. His dad and Peter never quite got along, but they’d just not talked. It happens. In a steady group, there’s bound to be personalities that don’t mix. It doesn’t have to tear it all apart.

“What about you?” 

Stiles sort of shrugs, as much as he can lying on his side. “At first, well, it was just like before. I was jealous and thought he didn’t deserve Lydia, and for a moment there, I thought I liked her again. But I think it was just comfortable, having that dynamic of hating him and loving her. I didn’t really feel it though. We’re too much alike in the wrong ways. We wouldn’t bring out good parts of each other.”

Would he and Derek bring out good parts of each other? Derek thinks so. Stiles gives him a reason to be a better person. But he’s biased and he knows it, knows that it doesn’t count for him to think it. It doesn’t matter anyway. Because they’re never going to go there. 

“What about you? How are you doing? With everything, I mean.” 

“Fine,” Derek says immediately, then hesitates. “Better. I’ve been seeing someone. A shrink, I mean. She’s helped a lot. It’s a process, though.” He breaks off, taking in the open look on Stiles’ face, the encouragement to continue, if that’s what he wants. If sharing this much of himself is what he wants. “I’ve been trying to let go. Of Kate. It hasn’t been easy. It can be hard to let go of an anchor. It’s…complicated. You have to find something else to replace it, and I don’t know if I have yet. I’m supposed to be making healthy relationships, but it’s difficult. You and your dad have helped, though.”

Stiles smiles a little, just a soft curve. “I’m glad. We’re always here, you know.” But Derek remembers Stiles’ outrage that his father had gone after Derek instead of his own son, and he aches.

“I don’t want to take him from you. I’m not good at…I haven’t had someone like him in my life in a long time. I don’t know how anymore. I know he’s yours, and I don’t want to take him.”

“No, I’ve never—“ Stiles stops, his heart beating a little faster, but it slows as he reconsiders. “He’s all I’ve really had for a long time. He was never around enough to really be that for Scott, so I’ve never had to share him. But I want to. Everyone needs a parent, I know that, and I want you to have that, and I want to share him with you, I’m just not very good at it. So bear with me if I’m not doing a good job.”

“No, you’re fine,” Derek breathes. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s fine, I can—“

“Derek, _I want to_. Okay? That’s _my_ decision.” Derek wants to kiss him in soft way. Just touch his lips to Stiles’ forehead or nose in a _thank you_. He can’t, even though his mouth buzzes with it. Stiles might accept it, that’s the worst part. That it might be okay.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Derek says, mostly because he needs an excuse to close his eyes and stop looking at Stiles. 

Stiles nods. “Can I— I mean, it’s okay if it’s not okay, it’s fine, I just—“ Stiles cuts off, looking annoyed at himself, smelling guilty. 

“Just say it.”

Stiles sighs deeply, then says, “Okay, I’m going to be really real here: we spoon. That’s a thing that happens, and I’m more than willing to not talk about it, I just wanted to know if, well, if I could be the big spoon. Sometime. In the general future.”

Derek looks at him for a moment, at the way he’s worrying his lip between his teeth, then turns over. Grabs Stiles’ arm and pulls it over himself. He smells like guilt and embarrassment, but it’s fading quickly. With a little noise, Stiles shifts closer so that his chest is pressed tight against Derek’s back. His body angles away just above his groin, and Derek gets that he’s a teenager and he doesn’t want it to get weird because he gets hard in a stiff breeze, let alone nestled against a warm body. 

“Can I—?” Stiles’ hand twitches a little, conspicuously not touching Derek at all. Derek takes it and settles Stiles’ palm over the lower part of his left pectoral. Over his heart. It’s too much to be casual, but Derek’s stupid and weak and needs it. It seems to be what Stiles wanted, though, because he relaxes against Derek’s back, his arm curling into him a little more. “This is okay?” he whispers against the back of Derek’s neck.

“Yeah. You?”

“ _Mmmhmm_ ,” Stiles hums, his chest reverberating with it a little. “It feels like you’re safe. Like I don’t have to worry.” 

“I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Too bad. It’s too late for that.” His voice is light and soft, but Derek feels the weight of that in his whole body. 

He curls back into Stiles’ arm a little, holding his hand to his chest, and says, “ _Go to sleep, Stiles_ ,” and they breathe in time with each other until their pulses match up, and after a while, they sleep.

 

Apparently, he’s nearly comatose because Derek wakes to “ _Oh my God, I am going to kill myself for seeing this, Derek, wake up!_ ”

Derek’s not the only one who wakes up at that; he can feel Stiles stirring, getting off him, because it seems that sometime in the night, they’d ended up with Derek sleeping on his stomach, as he tends to do, with Stiles mostly on top of him. 

Derek flips Isaac the bird before rolling over and sitting up. Stiles’ heart is beating pretty fast, and he has a suspicious amount of comforter in his lap, but Derek’s not going to pay attention to that. Because he’s a teenager and it happens and it has nothing to do with Derek, and even if it did, it doesn’t mean anything.

“What the hell do you want, Isaac?”

“It’s one thirty. The Sheriff called to tell you that morning sex is not an acceptable reason for tardiness and _I thought he was joking_ , Derek. _Why wasn’t he joking?_ I’m going to have to gouge out my eyes now.”

“Will they grow back?” Stiles asks Derek, sounding genuinely curious despite the fact of his hammering pulse.

“I don’t fucking know,” Derek says. “And get out of my room, Isaac. We need to have a conversation about personal boundaries and your sense of humor.”

“I didn’t sign up for this, you know,” Isaac says, then slams the door behind him.

“You can have the first shower,” Derek tells Stiles quickly. “I’ll make coffee and call your dad.” That’s enough to get Stiles out of the room, thankfully, which means that Derek can deal with the fact of his own morning wood. It only takes a couple of cringe-worthy thoughts to settle his body down. And now he can go downstairs to deal with Isaac.

And Jackson, apparently, who appears to be _consoling_ him when Derek gets downstairs. 

“Drama queens. Give it a rest. Where’s my phone?” Isaac points to it on the coffee table. Upstairs, the shower’s turned on. Derek grabs his phone and gives Isaac and Jackson a look. “You _know_ that nothing happened, so stop pretending that it did. _Grow up_.”

“Just because it didn’t happen doesn’t mean you didn’t _want_ it to,” Isaac bites out.

Derek glares. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? You’re going to go with that?” Jackson asks.

“You’ve been training us to rely on our senses for _months_ , Derek. I know what arousal smells like, and I know that I never want to smell it in that context again. I thought you said you didn’t like him, huh?”

“I _don’t_. It’s not like that.”

“Yeah? Then _please_ , find a way to explain to me why I walked in on some pretty graphic cuddling.”

“I, for one, would _love_ to hear it,” Jackson says.

Derek looks at them both. “I don’t owe an explanation to either of you. It’s not something you’d understand. Everything’s _sex_ with you, and it’s not like that. We’re just friends. That’s it. Get _off_ it.” He looks at his phone, sees the accepted call from the Sheriff. “What did he _really_ say?” Derek asks, waving the phone in the air.

“What I _told_ you,” Isaac says, then, “Basically. He said to call ahead if you’re going to be late next time, and _don’t you think it’s kind of weird_ that Stiles’ dad is totally cool with the idea that you’re sleeping together? Because that’s not _normal_ , Derek. Not for _just friends_.” 

“The Sheriff and I have an understanding.”

“ _Yeah_ , an understanding that you’re either getting it in or that you want to be,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes. Derek snarls at him, getting up in his face.

“ _You need to drop this_.” Derek looks at Isaac, too. “Both of you. You have _no idea_ what you’re talking about, so. _Shut. Up._ And don’t go talking to him about any of this. If he gets the wrong idea, he might get hurt, and I don’t want that to happen because _you two_ are a couple of gossips who can’t keep your mouths shut. We’re _fine_ , and I’m not going to let either of you screw things up. Are we clear?” Both of them nod quickly, a little afraid, maybe, because Derek hasn’t gotten this angry in a _long_ time. But they need to understand. Or everything is going to get fucked up. “Now I’m going to make a call, and you’re going to find something to do today that doesn’t involve any of this. Got it?”

They nod, and Derek goes to the coffee maker with his phone. He dials, then slips the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can get the coffee grounds from the freezer. The Sheriff answers after a couple of rings. 

“ _‘Afternoon, Derek_.” There’s a weird tone in his voice. 

“I’m sorry. I left my phone downstairs and we slept in. He’s in the shower right now, but I’ve gotta drop him off, so I’ll be there in about thirty. Coffee?” 

“ _It’s fine_.” The Sheriff sighs. “ _It’s been a slow day. You might as well stay home. But use an alarm next time. Or just let me know in advance if you’re gonna stay in bed all morning so I can put someone on your shift._ ” 

“That’s not going to be necessary, but I appreciate the gesture.” 

“ _Yeah, yeah. I gotta go. Paperwork is calling._ ” 

“Sorry.”

“ _It’s fine. Talk to you later._ ”

“Yeah,” Derek says, hanging up a second later. 

Isaac and Jackson both look like they’re pointedly not saying anything, and it pisses him off, but there’s nothing he can do about it. So he sits, lets the coffee brew, and waits for Stiles to finish his shower so he can take one. And that’s when he remembers that he has a date tonight. Shit. It’s a good thing, it is, he’s just nervous now and he doesn’t want to think about it. Great. 

 

“I met someone,” Derek says when he sits down in Marena’s office. 

“Yeah? Tell me about.”

“Her name’s Sarah. She’s, pretty, nice, assertive. We have a date tonight.” 

“Really?” Marena smiles. “That’s great, Derek. How do you feel about it?”

He shrugs.“I’m excited, I think,” he says because that’s what he’s supposed to feel, but then he realizes that maybe that’s not the best approach. “I’m _ready_ , I think. I want to like her. I want to get on with her. I think I could.” He doesn’t tell her about sleeping with Stiles because he _knows_ that it’s a bad thing and he doesn’t need to hear it from anyone else. 

“Good, that’s really good to hear. I mean, no one’s saying she _has_ to be the one, but it’s good to start putting yourself out there. How are other things? The Stilinskis?” 

“They invited me over for Thanksgiving. It was nice. I like spending time with the two of them. We talked about family a little. Mine and theirs.” He knows what she’s going to ask, so he continues. “I’ve never talked about my family to more than one person at a time, and it feels different. Like it’s not a secret. I think I prefer it that way. I don’t want my family to be a secret.”

 

They’re sitting in a Thai place and Derek’s not thinking about how Stiles averted his eyes when Derek came back into his room after his shower. Sarah is smiling, and she looks lovely, and they’re discussing what to order. She suggests the bubble tea, and he agrees, trying to figure out if he wants Pad Thai or some sort of soup. He’s about to decide on the Pad Thai when she sets her menu down and looks at him dead-on.

“Okay, I’m just going to be honest and get this out there before it gets weird: I have a son. He’s six. His name is Jamie. I haven’t spoken to his father since before he was born.” Derek’s eyebrows are raised, but he lowers them. It’s not the worst thing. “I don’t know if that’s a deal-breaker for you, but he’s my priority, so if it is, well, I’m sorry, but it was nice meeting you.” 

“It’s fine,” Derek says, shrugging.

“Really?” she asks. “Because most guys high-tail it at that.”

“It’s totally fine.” 

She narrows her eyes. “Are you _sure_? I was kind of expecting you to go to the bathroom and never come back. _Kid_ equals emotional baggage and usually that’s a little heavy. Especially for a first date.”

“If it would make you feel better, I have worse baggage,” he says, fiddling with the corner of the menu where the laminate is peeling up.

“Yeah?”

He nods. “My whole family is dead.” 

She’s silent at first, eyes wide, then she nods like she understands something. “You’re Derek _Hale_.” He nods again. “Okay. That makes sense, then. I grew up here. I mean, I _heard_ , obviously. Everyone did. Well. Then I guess we’re off to a great start, huh?” She chuckles, maybe nervously, and he smiles back a little. It makes things easier, her knowing. So it won’t come up later in a way that’ll fuck everything up. 

“I think we are,” he says honestly.

 

After dinner, he kisses her cheek and tells her that if she’d like to go out again, she should call him. Places the ball in her court, so to speak. It’s a relationship between two people, and he wants to make sure that both of them have a say in it. That’s healthy. That’s how it should be. 

He comes home and Isaac gives him a look but doesn’t say anything. 

“Can you give me a ride to Scott’s?” he asks before Derek gets to the bottom of the stairs. Derek turns, grabs his keys, and gives him an expectant look. 

“I’m going to spend the night there,” Isaac says when they get in the car. “I don’t think Stiles is doing anything tonight. And I’m not trying to say anything about it, so don’t jump down my throat, just take it at face value. If he’s here when I get back tomorrow morning, then he’s here. Whatever.” 

“Thank you,” Derek says after a moment. “That means something. I don’t want us to have any problems.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get all sentimental on me. The stoic thing’s served us pretty well so far.”

Derek nods. “Maybe that’s a problem. We don’t have to be like that. We can talk about things. I want us to be able to.” 

“Maybe. If something comes up.” 

They’re both quiet, and Isaac moves as if to fiddle with the radio, but stops himself. The drawn muscles in his hands and arms mean he’s keeping something in, he’s frustrated. Derek can hear his molars grinding.

“Okay, goddammit, I like Scott.” He breathes in sharply. “Now you know and it’s off my chest, and we can just never talk about it ever again. Deal?”

Derek nods. After a second, thinking of Allison, he says, “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it sucks, whatever. I’m doing a really great job at not moping about it, and I’m trying to keep it that way. So don’t start feeling sorry for me because then _I_ ’ll start, and I’ll never stop, so let’s just. Not.”

“Okay.” 

Derek looks at his hands on the steering wheel, thinking he should go tit for tat, but not wanting to. At all. He flexes his hands, staring at the pale bumps of his knuckles.

“I do,” Derek says. “With, uh, you know. It’s complicated, but I do.” 

Isaac looks at him, eyes big. “I fucking _knew_ it. I have no idea how you _lied_ about it, but I fucking knew it.”

“If you want to learn, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.”

“Howabout you teach me if I set you two up?”

Derek gives him a look. “I don’t _want_ to _actually_ be with him. It’s not a good idea. For either of us. I just…”

“Have feelings?” Isaac asks with only the barest trace of a smirk.

“Pretty much,” Derek says a little too emphatically. “So we’re not going to do anything about it, got that? And we’re not going to talk about it. Nothing changes.”

“Aye aye, Captain!” Isaac says, giving a mock salute. “We can be chumps together. Just know that I’m not watching The Notebook with you. I’ve seen it and it’s fucking _depressing_ , and I’m not sobbing my way through it again, so. It’s not happening.”

“Guess we’ll have to rent Brokeback Mountain, then,” Derek says, hiding a smirk. 

“Are you _trying_ to turn us into emotional cripples? Have you _seen_ Brokeback? Because repeatedly stabbing myself in the chest with a plastic fork would get the job done a whole lot quicker, and it would probably hurt less.” Isaac shakes his head. “You know, I’ve had you all wrong. I always thought you were a sadist because of training, but you’re a total masochist, aren’t you? You thrive on pain, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say I _thrive_ ,” Derek defends.

“Well, _I_ would. I mean, you like having Stiles around. That’s evidence enough. Especially all things considered.”

Derek sighs, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have told you anything.” 

“Liar. You needed someone else to know.” 

“You’re not the only other person who knows,” Derek says. “The Sheriff knows. I think he figured it out before me.” 

“Oh my _God_ , so it’s really not even the dad thing? So basically, you’re saying that you have literally no reason to not be with Stiles other than your own masochism. That’s beautiful. Really.” 

Derek looks at him sharply. “He’s underage. He’s never been in a relationship before. I’ve never been in a good one. It wouldn’t go well. He would end up hurt, and I don’t want that to happen. I don’t know what I would do if he was hurt.” 

“Well. I guess I should let Scott know that he doesn’t need to give you the _break his heart, I’ll break your legs_ speech. Sounds like you have that covered, don’t you?” His tone is a lot more aggressive than Derek would expect, and he glances at Isaac, trying to keep his eyes on the road. “Look, Derek, I don’t know what happened to you, but I know what it looks like, and you need to get off your own fucking back. I’ve had someone I cared about tell me I was a worthless piece of shit so many times that I started to believe it. And then someone told me I was important, and yeah, I got attached, but it’s not a bad thing to get attached to someone who’s good for you. Because if someone makes you believe that you’re worth something, then _maybe_ they’re the kind of person you want to keep around.”

“We’re here,” Derek says, pulling into Scott’s driveway. 

Isaac looks at him and Derek looks right back. If he’s very careful, he might be able to hide how much he wants to believe Isaac. For it to be that simple. But it’s just not. It’s not.

“Have a good time,” Derek tells him as he gets out of the car. 

Isaac leans in to make eye contact. “I’m right, you know.” He slams the door behind him, and Derek pretends that they don’t both know that he’s going to go to Stiles’. 

 

Time passes in a weird, stuttering way. 

Derek marks it by the nights he falls asleep to the rhythm of Stiles’ breathing. It’s wrong, and he feels _wrong_ for it, but it’s how his mind works. 

But he pays attention to other things. 

Like Jackson calling him to announce that he's convinced his parents to move back to Beacon Hills for the spring semester.

Like everyone on the lacrosse team making first line.

Like his dates with Sarah. 

He makes a conscious effort to pay attention there. After their third date, he kisses her on the mouth for the first time. It’s quick and gentle and it feels like it’s missing a sense of urgency, but he doesn’t think about that. Down that way lies madness. But after their sixth date, just after  Christmas (which he chooses to spend alone because it’s not a holiday he ever really celebrated anyway) she asks him if he wants to come over to her place for dinner. She wants them to make something together and she wants to introduce him to Jamie. 

“You’re not the first boyfriend I’ve introduced him to,” she says quickly, “so no pressure. I just don’t want my apartment to be some sort of quarantine zone. I’m not hiding him, and I like you. I’d like you to meet him.” 

That lands them in the grocery store on a Friday night, trying to figure out what, exactly, they’re going to make for dinner. 

“Pasta’s easy,” she says as they stand in front of the Great Wall of Pasta. There are _so many types of noodles_. 

“You say that,” he tells her, “but then we have to figure out if that means spaghetti or the curly ones or the bows. Or stuffed pasta. Which is in the refrigerated aisle with the cheese. But I don’t know what Jamie eats.”

She nods, looking at the pasta, thinking, then says, “He eats things he can play with.” 

“Try the rigatoni,” a familiar voice says. “They’re big enough that you won’t be finding them next week, but the shape’s good for making log cabins with.” The Sheriff, with a basket on one arm, grabs a box of the whole wheat spaghetti, tosses it in his basket, then claps Derek on the shoulder. “Good to see you, son.” 

“You too,” Derek says, trying not to panic. “Uh, here, this is Sarah. Sarah, this is Sheriff Stilinski.” They shake and Derek tries not to think about how that makes him feel like he’s watching some sort of weird french film without the subtitles. 

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” she says, smiling. She has a nice smile, a good smile. 

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine. When are you two coming over for dinner?” This is directed at Derek. Which sucks.There’s no good excuse he can make to run away, he notices as he looks around quickly. 

“Uh, well,” Derek starts. “That’s complicated. You know. But sometime. Soon?” 

The Sheriff smiles, clearly enjoying Derek’s discomfort at least a little. “ _Relax_ , I don’t mean to put you on the spot. I just wanted to remind you that you’re both welcome whenever. We’d love to have you. Now, I have to go talk to the butcher about how to make a good steak look lean, so I’ll get out of your hair, but it was nice meeting you, Sarah.” He winks and strides off with the confident walk of a man who knows he’s stirring up trouble. 

“ _That_ was really nice of him,” she says, surprised. 

Derek rubs the back of his head. “Well, I kind of eat dinner over there a bit.” Her eyebrows rise. “He’s friendly, and he saw that I didn’t really know anyone and I was struggling, so he invited me over a few times. It’s become kind of a thing, I guess.”

“That’s great.” She looks like maybe she’s wondering why she hasn’t heard about it before. He wouldn’t blame her for it. 

“It’s a little…I’ve been meaning to invite you, but it’s kind of a delicate situation.”

Her look isn’t _pressing_ , just open to whatever he has to say. Which means he has to _say_ something. A lie. A decent one. A good reason. That’s not something that’s easy to come up with on the spot.

“He has this son, right?” Derek says, listening to make sure Stiles or his dad aren’t anywhere around. “Stiles. He’s, like, sixteen. I hadn’t exactly made any friends in a while, so I made friends with him, and it’s fine, it’s just. He, well—“

“He has feelings for you, doesn’t he?” Well, that’s _excellent_. He can totally use that. 

“Yeah,” he says with a sheepish smile. “And he’s a nice kid, it’s just…obviously, I can’t return it. But I don’t want him to get hurt either, and I know that meeting you will hurt him. I need to get him used to the idea before introductions.”

“You’re a nice guy, you know that?” she says, smiling as she leans up to peck him. “Now help me find the rigatoni.” 

 

Jamie has chubby cheeks, bright blue eyes, and _loves_ Derek. It’s a little painful. Because—he’s not going to think about it, he’s not going to think about it—it’s not permanent. But Jamie has boundless energy and likes it when Derek lets him use his forearms like monkey bars.

He also likes making log cabins out of rigatoni. 

For a moment, a very brief moment, Derek wonders if Stiles did the same thing. If, when he was a big-eyed kid with too much energy, he made stuff with his food. He’d do full buildings, though. Rooms. Because Stiles never does things in halves. He’d let his food go cold trying to make the best rigatoni house there ever was. 

Jesus Christ, it’s four levels of inappropriate to be thinking of Stiles like that when he’s looking at his girlfriend’s ( _?_ ) kid. Shit, he’s fucked. But that’s nothing new. That’s just Derek. And tonight, after he kisses Sarah goodbye, he’ll go home to Stiles. Not like that. That makes it seem like they have something they don’t, and he needs to get it in his head that just because they fall asleep together at least four nights out of seven doesn’t mean they have anything more than friendship. 

Jamie goes to bed early, at eight, and Derek and Sarah end up on the couch watching the second half of a movie. When it’s over, an hour later, she gives him a sly look. 

“If he hasn’t come out here yet because he can’t sleep, then he’s out.” 

Derek’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, other than _I don’t want to have sex with you_ , which is a little abrupt and presumptuous, at the very least. 

Sarah smiles, reading his look. “I know we haven’t talked about sex or anything, so that’s not what I’m going after. I wouldn’t, not with him home. But we could make out. If you wanted.” This is normal. Actually, normal would have been sleeping with her already, but that’s a little _too_ normal for him. Making out is fine. He can do that. There’s nothing wrong with it. She’s a good kisser, even though he’s only _really_ kissed two people. (Though he wants to count Stiles, if only because that one meant something.)

He goes in for it first, meets her mouth smoothly. She tastes like the wine they both had with dinner, and her hands fit neatly against the sides of his neck. It’s not like he doesn’t like her. There’s no reason not to. She’s nice, intelligent, comfortable to be around. But kissing her feels like kissing Danny: mechanical. He’s performing an action, that’s it. 

But he doesn’t stop. That would be rude, wouldn’t it? Kissing her isn’t a _bad_ experience. It’s no big deal. 

It’s almost an hour later before the position is cramping Derek’s shoulder and he just feels _tired_. 

“I have to be at work early,” he tells her, offering a consolatory smile.

“Yeah, no, that’s good. I mean, me too.” She looks at him for a second, then laughs. “Okay, _that_ was embarrassing. Sorry. You’re good at that, you know.”

He smiles. “Well, you too. I wish I didn’t have to go, but…”

“No, no, go. No one likes an early morning. I’ll see you. I’ll call you.” She smiles with one side of her mouth, and her lips are a bit pinker than usual. 

 

Derek spends the drive home clenching and unclenching the steering wheel. 

 

When Derek makes it all the way into the living room, tossing his jacket over the back of one of the chairs, Isaac perks up, his nostrils flaring. 

“Why do you smell like someone?” he asks, eyes roaming all over Derek’s body like he’s looking for the source of the smell. Derek’s going to have to work with him on that. Later. Now, he’s tired and he can hear the steady pulse of Stiles dozing in his room.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Isaac gets up quickly, getting into Derek’s space. “Oh no no no. You smell distinctly of _woman_.” He puts his hands on his hips. “ _Explain._ ” 

“I…” Derek can’t lie to him, not in good conscience, but it’s not going to go over well. “I’ve been seeing someone, Isaac.” 

Isaac glances upstairs quickly, expression turning furtive. “Does _Stiles_ know?” he hisses. “Because that’s a _big fucking deal_.” 

“No, alright?” Derek sighs, not meeting his eyes. “It’s a trial thing. I’m seeing if I can do a relationship before I…well, so that I’ll know if I can handle being with him. If _he_ can handle it.” 

“Are you _serious_?” Isaac looks, well, a little outraged, actually. “That’s a really _shitty_ thing to do, Derek. You’re making this woman your relationship red shirt? Does _she_ know that you’re not really in it? _Jesus_.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “No, and look: it’s _my_ problem. I’m dealing with it. So calm down, mind your own business, and keep your mouth shut. Understand? _Do not_ tell him.” He’s not sure exactly why it’s so urgent that he keeps it a secret from Stiles, but it _is_. It’s necessary. 

He doesn’t let himself feel guilty for it. Even when he goes up to his room, finds the lights off and Stiles curled towards Derek’s side of the bed with his mouth open. He just nudges Stiles over, flips the pillow so his face won’t be in the drool patch, and smiles with that familiar mix of bliss and self-loathing when Stiles latches onto him in his sleep.

 

“I’ve failed, Derek,” Stiles says as they’re cutting the pizza for dinner. Derek looks up, sees an embarrassed half-smile warmly illuminated by the hanging light of the Stilinskis’ kitchen.

“What did you fail at?”

“Do you remember that thing you promised? Way back when?”

Derek narrows his eyes. “ _When_ , exactly?”

“Halloween.” 

He thinks he may have said a lot of things to Stiles that night, and he doesn’t remember what were promises. 

“About the Winter Formal,” Stiles says. His fingers pry the outside layer away from the corrugated layer of the cardboard pizza box. He squishes it flat in a series of nervous pinches. 

“You’re trying to tell me that you couldn’t find anyone to go with.”

Stiles frowns oddly, then says after a moment, “No one I asked said yes.” His pulse is steady, though Derek isn’t sure if it would change anything if he were lying. 

“When is it? The dance?”

“Two weeks,” Stiles says, still not making eye contact. “The night before the full moon.”

“Okay.” 

“Yeah?” Stiles crooks an eyebrow at him. “Because I know I phrased it like a pity thing before but I don’t want you to do it because you pity me. I like to think you think better of me than that. That we’re there, you know?”

“We are.” Derek glances at the pizza, uncomfortable. “It’s not a pity thing.” He meets Stiles’ eyes. “But you’re going to wish it was. Because I’m going to embarrass the _shit_ out of you. I said there would be corsages, and I wasn’t lying. I’m going the whole nine yards. It’s going to be the cheesiest, most stereotypical night of your life.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?” Stiles challenges.

Derek shrugs, smirking. “A bit of both. You’ll wish you’d asked someone off the street, I guarantee it. I’m gonna pick you up at the door, shake your dad’s hand, take you out to dinner, and request some corny song and we’re going to do the full middle school slow dance. Two feet of space, no eye-contact, the _whole_ shebang. _That_ ’s what I promised, and I’m gonna go through with it.”

“You’re the worst.” But he’s grinning wide, and Derek tries not to think about what that does to his stomach.

 

“I hear you’re taking Stiles to the dance,” the Sheriff says over coffee the next morning. 

There’s no use denying it.

“Does Sarah know?” The way he says it just makes Derek feel guilty all over. 

“It doesn’t have anything to do with her.” 

The Sheriff raises his eyebrows, mouth straight. “Alrighty, then. If that’s how you want it to be. I won’t say anything. My lips are sealed.” He zips his mouth, twists and throws away the key. “Now howabout them Mets?”

 

Not telling Sarah is easy, actually. It only almost comes up once, and then he dodges it easily.

The three of them, Jamie included, are at the Chili’s for dinner. Well, technically, they’re considering dessert when it happens.

“So do you want to go out next Saturday? Just the two of us, I promise. Becca’s flu should be cleared up by then.” It would be nice to be able to leave Jamie with the babysitter; not that he doesn’t like Jamie, but seeing him makes Derek feel guilty.

“Sure,” Derek says, looking up from Jamie’s colored chili pepper. “Wait, I can’t. Busy. Doing something for the Sheriff.” It’s half a lie. Just the wrong Stilinski.

“I understand. Maybe the week after? I’m off that Wednesday.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Derek says, then, when Jamie tugs at his sleeve, “Wow, that’s amazing. I can’t believe you did that with only four crayons!” Jamie beams, and it doesn’t matter, but his smile isn’t his mother’s. 

 

Stiles asks him about the specifics as they’re falling asleep. 

Derek grins and when he covers Stiles’ mouth, his hand is licked. So he grabs Stiles’ hand and licks his palm right back before he can protest. 

They’re no better than childrensometimes, but that’s okay.

 

It takes the Sheriff’s help to make his plans for the dance happen. He can at least use the threat of punishment to get Stiles to go get measured for his tux. Derek pays for it, of course. And he makes sure that theirs match. Stiles’ is in a flashy red he’ll like, black shirt, red bow tie, no jacket; he’ll be comfortable and Derek’s trying not to think about how he’ll look. Because down that road lies guilty erections and _he’s not going there_. His own suit is less dramatic, though: no vest, just a white shirt with black pants and a matching jacket, with the red of Stiles’ suit lining the inside. No tie. Derek doesn’t do ties. The last and first time he wore one was at his family’s funeral so it’s _not_ happening again. 

Is it wrong to be dropping so much cash on a teenage boy’s school dance experience? Probably. (Definitely.) But he’s not thinking about it. He’s got the boutonnieres (which is what he actually meant by a corsage, he’s informed by the florist) on special order so he can pick them up that day instead of the night before, so they’ll be more fresh. He has _reservations_ at the closest thing to a nice restaurant in town, an Italian bistro. No limo, though, because, well, he has a _Camaro_. Which is pretty damn good. 

And is he getting a little _too_ into it?

 _Yes_. 

But it’s important. Stiles isn’t a pity date, or a blackmail date. He deserves so much more than that, and Derek’s going to give it to him. If that means time and effort and money spent, so be it. Derek will deliver. 

 

Which is what he does. 

 

Saturday, at seven, which is when he told Stiles to be ready, he parks at the curb. He’s clean, his suit is pressed, and he has the cold-frosted container with the boutonniere in one hand. He’s ready.

Stiles, however, is not. 

Derek can hear that much as he gets out of the car.

 _Dad, fix it! I don’t know how the hell to tie this thing! Seriously, who like bow ties anyway?_ Stiles is saying. There’s a jumble of sounds, like he’s pacing and bumping into things.

 _Stay. Still,_ the Sheriff says, and the Stiles-noise stops. There’s a smack, like the Sheriff’s just slapped Stiles’ hand away. 

 _He’s not going to be on time anyway, it’s fine. There’s no way_ —

Derek very purposefully chooses that moment to knock. 

 _Oh, fuck_ , Stiles says, then the Sheriff reprimands him before saying with the intent to be heard, “You can come in, Derek.”

Derek pushes open the door, bizarrely nervous. Stiles is slightly more pink than usual, probably because his dad is still fussing over the bow tie. The Sheriff finishes a half-second after Derek walks in. He turns to Derek, who extends his free hand that he’s going to tell himself isn’t shaking.

“Thank you, sir, for allowing me the honor of escorting your son tonight,” he says, smirking when Stiles makes a noise.

“ _Oh my God, stop_ ,” Stiles begs, and Derek tries to focus on the Sheriff’s laugh instead of how Stiles looks because _wow_. Okay, he’s looking a little more than he should be, but seeing him in clothes that actually fit is _something_. Not that he’s not _something_ in anything else, but the whole outfit just _accentuates_ what’s already there and _damn_ , everything the tailor said is actually making sense now. Because he’s _stunning_. He’s always stunning, but he _is_. He just. 

Derek needs a moment to compose himself again, but he’s not going to get it because then the Sheriff clears his throat. _Loudly_. 

“Say, Derek, what’s that in your hand?” he prompts, and Derek gets from his tone that he’s totally and completely been caught. That he must have been staring for an awkward length of time. _Great_. 

Derek holds out the boutonniere a little abruptly. “This is for you. I don’t actually know why people have these, but it’s a thing that they do, so. Here.” Stiles takes the box, opens it, and pulls out the white rose. Which is cliche, Derek knows, but there’s a _reason_ for cliches. 

“Wow. Uh. I don’t actually know how—“

“Here,” Derek says, stepping forward to take it from him. “Let me.” He fastens it to Stiles’ vest, paying very close attention to the task at hand because he is _not_ going to get distracted. This close, Stiles smells embarrassed, but it’s the good sort of embarrassed, like he smells when avoiding a compliment. “There you go.” He looks up and _ouch_. Stiles is too close at eye level, and Derek wants to believe that he can feel his breath on his face. But he could count each hair in Stiles’ eyebrows, each freckle, each pore, each wrinkle in his lips, each disastrously long eyelash, each multi-dimensional fleck in his eyes. It takes Derek a moment to realize that he’s not actually breathing. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says, taking a step back. He’s uncomfortable, going by the way he’s running his hand across the back of his scalp. That’s not what Derek wanted. _Shit_. 

“We should get going. To the restaurant, I mean,” Derek says. 

“Yeah.” 

And then they stand there. Sort of looking at each other but not _really_ looking at each other. Little glances. Until the Sheriff coughs loudly and Derek wants to maybe _die_ because he’s _right there_.

“Well, you two have fun. Send me a text if I shouldn’t make breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Derek nods, opens the door behind him, and jerks his head in Stiles’ direction. They walk out to his car with _purpose_. Derek’s purpose is mostly to be ahead of Stiles so that it’s impossible to look at his ass, but that’s not really important. Everything’s going okay so far. That’s all that matters. 

Of course, when they’re halfway to the restaurant, Derek realizes in the odd silence that he’s maybe doing something stupid. 

“What do you _want_ to eat?” Derek asks abruptly, glancing between Stiles and the road. “I made these reservations, but if you don’t want Italian, it’s stupid to take you there. So what do _you_ want?” 

“Um. Well.” Stiles is grinning and Derek’s chest feels impossibly small. “I was kind of in the mood for, like, burgers and shakes. But if you have reservations, I mean…”

“Don’t worry about it. Mo’s?” he asks. It’s where they usually get burgers. It’s out on the edge of town, but it’s worth it; Stiles likes their curly fries, and they make a mean bacon cheeseburger. 

Stiles nods. “That sounds awesome.” Derek returns his smile, then makes himself focus on the road. Because he might have fast reflexes, but it’s not something he wants to risk. Stiles isn’t. Not tonight. Not ever, but especially not tonight. Tonight will be a good night. Stiles will have a good, _normal_ memory to come of it. Derek will make sure of it. 

 

“Are we gonna share this?” Stiles asks with a little smirk over his milkshake. It’s in one of those huge, old-fashioned glasses, and for a moment, Derek’s stomach twists at the image of them both sipping from it like it’s the ’50’s.

“It’s _yours_ , idiot,” Derek says to cover up the fact that for a moment there, he regressed. 

“Aw, but you’re never gonna woo me with _that_ attitude.” Stiles blinks at him. Well, he kind of flutters his eyelashes. Which shouldn’t be a thing, but apparently, it’s something he can do. 

Derek sticks his tongue out. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You know, if you’d told me a year ago that you’re actually a _child_ , I would’ve never believed it.” His eyes drop and he grins, shaking his head. “Derek Hale, you’re an enigma. And I mean that in a Peanuts sort of way.” Derek’s not actually sure what that means, but it’s not malicious, so he’ll take it. “Anyway, what song are we gonna dance to?”

“ _You’ll have to find out_.” Derek smirks. It’ll be good. It’ll be great. 

“Come on, dude, you can’t leave me hanging like this,” Stiles wheedles. Derek shakes his head, so he breaks out the doe eyes. Which is surprisingly effective on his face. 

“Nope.” 

Stiles frowns, sipping angrily with his straw in one corner of his mouth.

The waitress brings their burgers a moment later, and then Derek doesn’t have to fend off questions at all. Because he has plans. They’re going to get to the dance, Derek will request his song, they’ll talk to the pack for a while, and then they’ll have their dance. And maybe they might dance a little more. And then after that, there’s the _real_ dance, where Derek takes Stiles out to the edge of the preserve and plays the realsong on his car’s stereo and under the open sky, they’ll dance in the moonlight. And Derek will _not_ tell Stiles that he loves him, but he’ll think it very hard, and maybe, on some level, Stiles will understand. 

“You’re thinking a lot,” Stiles says with his mouth partially full. “What’s up?”

“Just making sure everything goes according to plan.”

Stiles swallows. “You sound like a super villain when you say it like that.” Derek shrugs. “What did you do for _your_ Winter Formal anyway? Or is that spoilers?"

“I didn’t,” Derek says. “My freshman year, it was the wolf moon, so we had to stay home, and the next year, it was a week after the fire, so _that_ didn’t happen. I wasn’t planning on going, anyway. Kate said if I skipped it, she’d _make it worth my while_.” He grimaces. His stomach is fine, though, so that’s something. 

“Oh.” Stiles looks down at his burger for a moment, then looks up sharply. “I’d kill her, you know. If she weren’t dead, I’d kill her. And I wouldn’t feel bad about it. Not even a little.”

“I wouldn’t let you do that.” Stiles is angry, looks like he’s about to start saying something, so Derek cuts him off. “Not because I’d want her alive. And not because I want to do it myself. I just don’t want you to have to kill anyone. You shouldn’t have to do that.”

“I already _have_ , though. And I would do it again in a heartbeat. If it was her, I mean.”

Derek shakes his head. “I would give anything for you to not have killing Deucalion on your shoulders.”

“ _Why_?” Stiles asks, a little too loudly for a public place. Then, softer, “I did it for _you_. You would have _died_ otherwise.”

“Then so be it.” Derek shrugs. “You don’t deserve to have killed someone.” 

Stiles shakes his head. “You’re being ridiculous. Don’t you _ever_ expect me to hesitate if you’re dying. You hear me? You, or anyone else I— I care about. Because I won’t. I’ll do whatever I have to. Got it?”

That hurts. That hurts a lot. Somewhere deep, a sharp place in his guts shaped like the blade of a knife. 

“ _Hey_ ,” Stiles says, grabbing his arm on the table and looking him in the eyes. “I mean it.” 

Derek looks away. “I don’t want to talk about this in here.”

Stiles looks down at his plate. “I’m done. Are you?”

Derek nods, stomach churning too much for him to be hungry. 

“Then let’s get out of here. Because we’re _finishing_ this conversation. It’s important.” 

He tosses more than enough to cover their check on the table and follows Stiles to the car. They get in. 

“Okay, what’s so… _whatever_ that you can’t talk about it in there?” Stiles asks. Derek puts the key in the ignition and doesn’t look at him. “ _Seriously_ , dude.” Once they’re on the road, headed out to cut across the preserve towards the school, Derek feels like he can answer.

“You can’t protect me, Stiles. And you can’t _try_ , okay? Because some day, something’s going to come along and it’s going to be too much for the both of us, and when that day comes? I need you to _run_.” Stiles makes a noise, but Derek plows on. “No. I need you to promise me that whatever happens, you’ll run if I tell you to. If I’m going to die, I need to know that it’s not for nothing. I need you to survive. Because I’ve lost too many people to…I just can’t lose you too.” Derek glances at Stiles, and his mouth is open, but soft, and there’s a cracked noise from his throat. “I’m sorry for asking, I just…I can’t. I need to know that you’ll live.” 

Stiles is shaking his head, and he smells a little like salt, and also, unfortunately, like guilt. His mouth is pressed closed tightly, and he’s just shaking his head, and that is precisely when the SUV hits them.

 

Derek doesn’t hit his head enough to pass out, so he sees everything when the car flips and veers off into the ditch. 

 

He can’t protect Stiles because he can’t control his body at all until the car settles. 

And then his priority is Stiles. 

Stiles, whose nose is definitely broken because there’s blood all over his face, and he’s hit his head, Derek can tell by how he’s completely dazed. Or maybe that’s just the crash. _Fuck_. 

“Hey, Stiles, look at me,” Derek says as he pops open his seatbelt to reach out to him. Stiles turns his head slowly. 

“Holy shit, man. I think we just got hit by a car.”

“Yeah, it’s going to be okay, just look at me. Okay? Can you do that?” Stiles nods and Derek takes his face in his hands, gently, so gently, and turns his head to see how bad it is. 

It’s not, though.

He’ll have a knot there, but there’s no blood. That’s at least something. But he’s probably concussed. Shit. Derek doesn’t really know how to deal with human injuries. He needs to call Deaton or Mrs. McCall. And the Sheriff. _Fuck_.

“Dude, that car came out of _nowhere_ ,” Stiles says, blinking quickly. His voice is nasal and he makes a face when he closes his mouth. “I gotta get out and spit somewhere, man. This tastes _awful_.” Stiles fumbles with his seatbelt, so Derek gets it, lets him just handle the door. And then Derek has to get out quickly and run around the other side to be able to catch him if he falls getting out of the car. 

Which is when he gets _shot_. 

In the _shoulder_.

He’s not even _close_ to expecting it, that’s the thing. He just hears the noise and then there’s this _pain_ , and he makes the connection by the time he’s jumped around to the other side of the car so he can keep Stiles’ head down.

“Holy fuck, what was _that?_ ” Stiles asks, then pulls his hand away from Derek’s shoulder, sees all the blood. “Did you just get _shot_?” 

Derek nods. “ _Stay._ _Down_.” 

“ _Come out come out wherever you are_ ,” an unfamiliar voice sing-songs. “You really gave everyone else the drop, switching restaurants like that, but I guess I was just lucky enough to be in the neighborhood.” 

“Who the _fuck_ are you?” Derek yells, one hand on Stiles’ shoulder to keep him down. 

“I’m the guy who’s going to nab our first Alpha,” he says, and he’s about thirty feet away, Derek can hear. “But I’m a fair man, so if you play nice, I might give you a five second head start. And it might be in your best interests to do something with your human. I won’t hesitate to shoot him if he gets in my way. The wolfsbane might not do too much, but bullets are bullets, aren’t they?” 

“If I cooperate, will you harm him?”

“Like I said, only if he gets between me and you, Alpha.”

Derek looks at Stiles, decision already made. “We’re going to surrender. There will be _no_ resistance. Just let me call an ambulance for him, alright?” 

“You mean let you call your _pack_? Fat chance. Surrender and I’ll call 9-1-1 before we leave him here.” Stiles is shaking his head, he’s angry, but Derek gives him a look. 

“If anything happens, _run_ , okay? And don’t look back.” Slowly, he stands, holding Stiles down a little so that if the guy decides to shoot the first head that pops up, it won’t be him. 

The guy holding the gun is _clearly_ a hunter. They all have the same tragic fashion sense: black jeans, black t-shirt, black holster, black combat boots. And a stupid fucking _smirk_ , like he’s won something. _Definitely_ a hunter.

“That’s right, nice and slow. Now come around the side,” he says. 

Derek raises his hands, looking at Stiles, who does the same, and they slowly step from around the car. 

Very quietly, completely under his breath, Stiles whispers, “ _He only has one gun._ ” Derek shakes his head sharply. So what if he only has six bullets? Well, five, ignoring the one that’s currently lodged in Derek’s shoulder. He can feel it, too. His arm is heavy, unable to heal, and there’s that sharp acid sting of wolfsbane. Fuck. 

“Now come here, both of you. _Slow_.” 

Derek nods, complying. “Stay behind me,” he says, hoping against hope that Stiles will _listen_. 

“This is cute, guys. Really. I gotta say, kid, you have shitty taste, but maybe you like them a little wild. I know some people are into that kind of thing. It’s a fetish. They’re all sick _freaks_ , but that doesn’t mean they can’t start young, I suppose.” Derek can hear Stiles’ anger, can smell it over his blood.

“This is Argent territory. They’ll come after you, you know.” _Derek_ doesn’t know that, but hopefully this guy will believe it. 

The man laughs, making a scar on his cheek visible. “I outrank that _high-schooler_. Maybe if Gerard or Kate was around, that might be half a threat, but we have authority anyway.”

“Authority for _what_?” Stiles spits. 

The man shrugs, keeping his gun trained on Derek. “To collect a finder’s fee on your _pet_. They pay a lot for Alphas, even ones as shitty as this one. You can still electrocute a failure.” 

“ _He’s not a failure_!” Stiles yells, and Derek snaps back to give him a look.

“Shut up. Okay? Don’t let him provoke you.”

The hunter shakes his head, a weird smile on his face. “That’s almost cute. The Sheriff’s son is so _protective_. Does he actually like you, Alpha? Or does he just let you fuck him?” The hunter looks at Stiles. “Tell me, Stilinski, does daddy know that his little boy likes monsters? Does he know you like them _furry_? I bet you can’t even get it up for a human.” 

Derek can feel Stiles react, can feel him start to lunge across the ten feet between them and the hunter, and he throws an arm across his chest just in time to hold him back. The hunter sees the sudden movement and shoots. _Twice_. Pain spreads in Derek’s side, just at the edge of his stomach, and above his pelvis. He nearly doubles, wincing at the blows, but he keeps holding Stiles back.

“Oh God, Derek,” Stiles says. He smells like panic. “Oh my God.” 

“Get over here, you stupid fucking animal. Come with me and I can get you what you need to treat that,” he says, gesturing at where Derek’s bleeding. 

“ _Give me a minute_ , would you?” Derek growls. His teeth are too long in his mouth. The wolfsbane and the anger this close to the full moon aren’t a good combination for his control. 

The hunter rolls his eyes as Derek inches forward. “I don’t think you want to get testy with me. Still holding a gun, Einstein, and if you piss me off, I might bring in your little boy, too. There’s bound to be someone researching what happens to a human when they fuck an abomination.” 

“You don’t want to do that,” Derek says through gritted teeth. “If you try to take him, I’ll find a way to kill you. It’s that simple.”

“You think that’s a—“ He’s cut off with the impact of Stiles’ body. Two more shots are fired: one grazes the side of Derek’s head, the other misses completely. They’re wrestling for the gun, and Derek lunges forward to help, but his legs are weak and he crumples. Stiles grabs the hair on top of the guy’s hair and slams his head into the asphalt. It’s enough to daze him so that Stiles can get control of the gun. He’s sitting on the hunter’s chest, and he spits blood into his face.

“ _Bullets are bullets, bitch_ ,” Stiles snaps, and before Derek can do anything, he pulls the trigger. 

And then Stiles slumps, staring at the mess of the guy’s head. 

The gun falls to the asphalt with a clatter. 

Derek makes a sound, his chest hurting at what Stiles must be feeling, and Stiles snaps back to him.

“Oh fuck, _Derek_.” He scrabbles over the body, crawls a couple feet to where Derek’s trying to get up and failing. 

“ _Get the gun_.”

Stiles looks at it, his face falling. “That was the last bullet. I’m so fucking _stupid_ , that was the _last bullet_.” 

Derek looks at the gun, at the body, at Stiles’ shaking hands, at the blood soaking his shirt, back at the gun. 

 _Fuck_. 

“Shit, what do we do? Derek, what do we _do_?” Stiles is panicking now, his pulse is thudding too fast in Derek’s ears, and he’s breathing to fast. He needs to calm down. If he has a panic attack right now, Derek’s going to die.

“Go to his car,” Derek says, wincing as he forces himself to his knees. “Check for guns. He probably has another. Or at least extra rounds.” Stiles runs off, and Derek looks down at his pants. They’re too dark to really see the blood or his body rejecting the wolfsbane, but his thigh looks _wet_. And his side is black. _Jesus_. 

But it’s going to be okay. 

Stiles is going to find those extra rounds and he’ll be okay.

“There’s nothing here. Derek, _there’s nothing here_!” Stiles half-stumbles out of the SUV, eyes too wide.

“Check the body, then. There’s got to be some.” 

Stiles jumps to the ground, searching the guy’s pockets. “Can’t you sniff it out or something?”

Derek shakes his head. “Not over…” He gestures to where he’s been shot.

Stiles stops looking, hands shaking too much.

He shakes his head, and he’s so pale, making the blood under his nose stand out.

“I can’t find anything, Derek. I don’t know what to do.” 

“Call your dad. Call the Argents. Call Deaton.” It’s hard work to keep himself upright, and he thinks it might not be worth it. He doesn’t mean to _fall_ over, but it gets him into a more comfortable position, at least. 

As Stiles tries to stop his bleeding and make the calls, Derek considers his options. Which are very, very few, predictably. Without the specific strand of wolfsbane, he’s basically fucked. Introducing the wrong type would make matters worse, he knows, so Argent won’t be any help to him. The problem is, he _knows_ what his one option is, the option that Deaton will tell him he has to try, and he doesn’t want to hear that. Because he _can’t_. He’s unable. 

Which is why he tells Stiles to call his dad first. So that Stiles will have someone to take care of him when Derek can’t.

Which, judging by how he feels, is probably in the next half hour. Less, most likely. Since the shot to his shoulder is so close to his heart. And there’s too much in his blood. It’ll travel too fast, and if he tries to fight it, it’ll only get worse. He’s going to die, and it’s going to happen very soon. 

“Hey, what’s that look? I don’t like that look, Derek,” Stiles says, grabbing his shirt.

“Keep calling.” Derek is putting off telling him as long as possible.

Stiles shakes his head. “I told my dad to call them. I’m here with you. I’ll do whatever you need, okay?” 

“You’ve calmed down,” Derek observes.

“Well, it wasn’t helping you any. So. I’m going to be fully here. And we’re going to get through this just fine. One day, a long time from now, we’ll look back on tonight and laugh. You’ll say _Hey, Stiles, remember that time I tried to take you to the dance and you got me shot?_ And then we’ll laugh, okay? It’s going to be really funny. It might take a couple years, but you’ll find the humor in it. I promise.” 

Derek coughs, frowns. “I’m sorry. This was supposed to be your night, but I— I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Don’t say that.” He pulls Derek’s head into his lap, touches his face. 

“This was supposed to be a good night for you, but it’s not going to be now. I’m sorry that this happened. I’m sorry for what’s going to happen. If I could make it up to you, I would.” 

Stiles’ eyes go wide and his mouth trembles. “Derek? Why are you making it seem like you’re gonna die?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek tells him honestly. He grabs Stiles’ arm. “I’m sorry.”

“No. Stop. Stop that right now. We’re going to fix this. You’re going to be _fine_. Alright? Remember the last time I said that? And it was true, right? You thought you were going to die and then you were fine.”

“Last time, I—“ Derek coughs “—was in a healing coma for _four days_.”

Stiles shakes his head and his eyes look _wet_. “Stop it, okay? You’re going to be fine. There has to be _something_ we can do.” 

“Cutting off my arm isn’t going to fix it this time,” Derek tells him, half-smiling.

“But there’s something, right? We can do _something_.”

Derek grimaces. He doesn’t want to say it, to give him that hope, because he _can’t_.

“No, no, that wasn’t a _no_. Derek, what can we do? _Tell me_.” Stiles is basically cupping his face, and it’s a soft, tender thing. But it’s only because he thinks Derek might be dying. And Derek’s not strong enough for the one thing that might save him. “ _Tell me right now, you asshole,_ ” Stiles grinds out.

“It doesn’t matter because it won’t work. So it doesn’t matter.” 

Stiles shakes his head. “Fuck you, you don’t know that. We have to at least _try_. I swear to God, if I have to suck the wolfsbane out of you, I’ll do it, okay? Whatever you need. Whatever we can do is something better than nothing.”

“You don’t understand,” Derek says, “I can’t do it. Even if I somehow could, it wouldn’t…I can’t. _”_

“We’ll figure it out, okay? Just tell me. I can’t sit here and know we didn’t even _try_.”

“In theory, an alpha with a strong enough anchor can…” Derek trails off, trying to think of how to word it. “We can wait out the wolfsbane, basically. Push it out of our bodies. But it takes a lot, and it only works around the full moon, and it’s not a guarantee anyway. Besides, there’s only a chance with a good anchor. It takes too much of the human side, and without a good connection to that, it’s pointless. So I can’t do it.”

“Why the hell not?” Stiles asks. There’s something between a threat and a warning in his tone.

“Because what I have is Kate. _Barely_. I’m only holding onto her until I can find a new anchor. But she’s what I have, and my connection to her isn’t strong enough. _If_ I could somehow make it strong enough to try, it would destroy me again. I’d have to go back to where I was before the fire, and even if that was possible, it wouldn’t be pretty.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Then just _find a new anchor_. One that’ll work.”

“If it were that easy, don’t you think I would’ve done it by now?” Derek snaps. He feels bad about that, but his control isn’t as strong as he’d like. 

“ _Come on_. It’s easy. You find someone you have some sort of relationship with, and then you just use that. Scott could do it when he was just starting out, so if you’re saying you can’t? I’m calling bullshit on that one.” Derek shakes his head. “ _Dude_. The list of people you could use is _endless_. Isaac. Scott. My dad. Just _pick_ someone.”

“ _I can’t_!” Derek yells, too close to wolfing out. He forces his body to calm, and he says, “It’s not as easy as just _picking_. I _know_ who I would pick. But an anchor, especially for an alpha, makes your sanity and other people’s safety dependent on someone else. It’s too much to put on a person. I can’t do it.” 

“I’m am so serious right now, Derek, on behalf of everyone ever, I am giving you permission to make your anchor whoever the fuck it needs to be for you to survive this. If they have a problem with it, they can talk to me, okay?”

He can’t help it; Derek _laughs_. Just a chuckle or two, though it’s more painful than he would’ve thought. 

Stiles’ eyes go wide, and he’s _afraid_. Confused and scared, and it’s Derek’s fault.

“What the hell is so funny?”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s irony. At its worst. Because you have no _clue_. And that’s good, it keeps you safe, but you just have _no_ idea.” Fuck, his body hurts, and he feels like he’s on fire because it’s in his veins. He doesn’t have long. Not long at all. He might as well tell Stiles then. Since he won’t have to deal with the aftermath.

“Okay, you’re going to have fill me in then. _Right fucking now_.” Stiles looks murderous, and that’s not funny because he killed someone for Derek not long ago, but he’s clearly getting delirious because everything’s funny.

“The only person it could ever be is you,” Derek says, grinning at the pain in his chest as he speaks. “And you wouldn’t give me permission if you knew that. You don’t want that.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , you are _unbelievable_ ,” Stiles says as he holds Derek’s head in his hands, looking him in the eyes. “ _Do it_. Make me your anchor already, you asshole.” 

“You don’t—“

“Honestly, I swear to God, Derek, if you don’t make me your anchor and _save your own fucking life_ , I’ll _make_ you. And I could do it. I could.”

Derek shakes his head. “Not possible.”

“Yeah?” Stiles has a wild look in his eyes that Derek doesn’t like. “Because I bet you that if I cut my stomach open with that hunter’s knife, you’d want to save me, wouldn’t you? But you wouldn’t be able to do that if you were dead. So I’d bleed to death, right here, on the side of the road. And the only thing that could save me would be the bite, Derek. You’d have to do it. A human body can’t heal from that. A werewolf can, but little old me? Not so much. And you can’t bite me if you’re dead, can you?” 

This feels almost like betrayal, but it’s nothing like the other times, with Kate and with Peter and with Scott. This time, he has a choice. He can stop it. Stiles is manipulating him, but Derek doesn’t _want_ to die anyway. He just doesn’t want to force Stiles into being his anchor. But he can find another after this. He can separate. It’s what he’ll have to do. 

And Stiles would do it, too. To prove a point, he’ll do it. Because he knows that Derek will save him. It won’t really be a suicide.

“ _Never_ again,” Derek tells him. “Never use that against me again. Do you swear?” 

Stiles nods quickly, his thumb stroking Derek’s jaw in a way that’s probably supposed to be comforting. “I swear. Okay? _I swear_.”

And then, Derek does what he has to.

Which is a lot harder than it sounds, especially since he’s only heard the theory of it, from Laura. _She_ wasn’t even sure it would work. But he’ll _try_. 

There’s something of a joke to it, actually. An anchor is something like the metaphor of a heart, but now he has to use it to save his _actual_ heart. An anchor is what keeps a werewolf human. Or what allows them to hold onto humanity. It’s how to slow healing, which is what he needs here. Because his quick healing is forcing the wolfsbane through his body to his heart, and once it hits, it’ll spread and his blood will try to heal it, but it’ll react and coagulate in his veins so it can’t carry oxygen. 

In _theory_ , if a werewolf can focus on their anchor enough, they can slow their healing down to a stop, which should stop the reaction in his blood. _Should_. 

“In the next half hour,” Derek tells Stiles, “this is going to get very messy. And I’m going to need a blood transfusion. Human.”

“What blood type are you?” Stiles asks quickly, getting out his phone. 

“I have no idea. I never needed to know.”

Stiles nods. “It’s okay, then. I’ll call Lydia. She’s O-negative.” As he dials, he says, “We did a lab in biology freshman year.” 

Derek grabs the phone from him, shakes his head. “Not her. The immunity. I don’t know what her blood will do to me. Can’t risk it.” 

“Fuck. Okay, well, my dad should be on his way? I think he’s O-negative, too. I don’t know.” 

“That’s a start. I might need more than he can give. I have to bleed the wolfsbane out of my system, and if I try to heal anything, it won’t work.” 

Stiles frowns. “Wait, so explain this to me?” 

So Derek does, wincing because he’s running out of minutes, and Stiles grabs his phone back, eyes lit up.

“If you’re trying to repress your natural werewolf side, why don’t we just use mountain ash?”

“My body will reject it,” Derek tells him because he _knows_ that.

“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “It’ll reject _you_. There’s a difference. But if your blood and the wolfsbane mix, it’ll get them both. It’s like a charcoal filter. I can make it just wash everything out.” .

“You do that, okay?” he says. “I’m just going to lay here.” Stiles calls Deaton and Derek’s getting fuzzy around the edges

He has to slow it down anyway. There’s no way Deaton can get to them fast enough. If he can’t slow it down, he’ll die. He needs to focus. On Stiles. 

But that comes easy, so easy.

Stiles’ pulse is in his ears almost constantly anyway, and Derek can hone in on it, on the wet sound of him trying to breathe through his broken nose, on his voice, on the natural sounds of his body working, the hum of his blood. Derek would be human for him. He’s proud of who he is and what his family has been through for it, but he’d give it up for Stiles. If Stiles asked him to find a “cure” and take it, he would. Stiles makes him want to be his best, and his best is in control, the human side. 

It’s a weird sort of Apollonian dream that he forces his body to accept. He might be shaking with the effort, trying to hold everything inside of him back. It _hurts_. The bullet wounds feel larger when they’re not trying and failing to close, and it hurts because he knows it’s not going to go away in a minute or two. 

“Hey, what do you need, Derek? What can I do?” 

“Can I—“ Derek coughs, winces. “Your hand. Can I just hold it? I won’t break it. Swear.” 

Stiles’ hands wrap around one of his. “Of course. I know you won’t. I trust you. And if you needed to, it would be okay. I look good in a cast, I bet.” Derek shakes his head, squeezing Stiles’ hand a little. Not too hard. He’s careful, and being careful keeps him in control. 

“Won’t. Just need you to talk to me. Anything.” 

“Yeah? Well, I’m the right guy for this, then,” he says, but his voice is faltering a little. “I don’t really know what to say, though. Because I’m _terrified_ , Derek. If you die, it’ll be my fault, and I— I just can’t do that. It’s not okay. I need to save you because I shouldn’t have shot that guy. It was stupid. He just made me so _mad_ because he doesn’t even have a _clue_. He thought that maybe after following us around, he knew who we were? He knows _nothing_. He has no idea.” Stiles sniffs, hard, and it’s a bubbly, wet sound, and then he spits. “Can I tell you a secret? You have to promise not to tell anyone else, but it’s a good one.” 

Derek makes an effort to nod, not sure where he’s going or if he’ll like it.

“I figured out how to lie to everyone. There’s basic evasion, obviously, but I saw something on a TV show once about a guy who cheated a polygraph by stabbing himself with a pin, and it actually works. Go figure. I mean, I had to practice for a while, but it works. I don’t lie to you, though. It’s just a back-up plan. In case you ever asked me something I didn’t want to answer, something I couldn’t give away. I only even _half_ -lied to you once, you know. You asked me if I couldn’t find anyone to go with to the dance and, well, I didn’t ask anyone. I was never going to ask anyone else. I wanted to go with _you_. And I know it was wrong to trick you into it, but I couldn’t help it.”

Derek’s body might be on fire, and it might be freezing, but either way, he knows he’s not going to be conscious much longer. He’s never really understood how humans go into shock, how pain can just overwhelm them until their bodies shut down, but it’s going to happen soon. Only it can’t. That’ll mean his control will slip. Fuck. 

“ _I don’t think I can do this much longer_ ,” Derek hisses. 

One of Stiles’ hands, cool, wipes his forehead. “No, you can. You’re strong. You can do it. And you’ve been strong for a long time. You won’t have to be in a little while, okay? But you gotta hang in there for a little while longer for me. ‘Kay?”

Derek nods, held in consciousness more by the feel of Stiles’ hands than anything else.

“Besides, you haven’t told me what song we were going to dance to.”

“Boyz 2 Men. I’ll Make Love To You,” Derek bites out, grinning and forcing his eyes open for Stiles’ reaction. 

Stiles narrows his eyes. “ _Are you shitting me?_ ” he asks, mouth hanging open. “No, seriously, are you _shitting_ me? Oh my God, who _are_ you?” 

“That wasn’t the big finale,” Derek says, inhaling at the pain in his stomach. “That was— to make you drop your guard. That’s all. Later, I was going to take you out into the woods and play a _real_ song. Ask you to dance to that one. It was supposed to be _good_. A good moment. For you. You should have more of those.” Stiles’ thumb traces his temple, his cheekbone, his nose, his jaw. He’s smiling, and it’s just a little one, but it means something. Derek doesn’t know what, but it does. 

“You gonna tell me _that_ song?”

Derek shakes his head. “Not unless I make it.” He coughs, eyes watering because that _hurts_. “Good song. Don’t want you to think of this when you hear it. Won’t ruin it for you.” 

“Don’t talk like that, okay? You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

“Can’t make that promise.”

“I can,” Stiles assures him. “I can, and I am. I’m _promising_ you that you’ll be okay.”

Derek looks away. “You shouldn’t have to do that. For me. You do too much for me.”

“Derek, I…” Stiles bites his lip, shaking his head. “You have to know how I feel. It’s always been obvious. So whatever you think is too much? I’d be happy to do. I’d do anything you asked, unless it’s letting you do something stupid. Like dying. Because I’m not going to let you do that. But we’re going to make it from here and everything’s going to be fine, and if you’ll let me, I’ll be with you.”

“Can’t. It can’t happen,” Derek says, that other pain sinking into his chest when Stiles’ face drops. “I’m trying. To make a place for you, but it’s not working.” And from the way Stiles’ bloody mouth tightens in a line, from the way his eyes drop, resigned, Derek _knows_ he’s taking that in the wrong way. Because Derek means _here_ , the here and now, where they have to fight for their lives sometimes. He wants a place where Stiles will always be safe and that’s where he’ll love him properly. And if he can’t _find_ that safe place, he’ll make this one better, but it’ll take time. 

But Stiles is getting something else, and Derek doesn’t have the energy to tell him. Or maybe he just has a little bit of goodness left. 

“Well, however that goes, you know now. And you gotta know that I’ll fight off death itself for you. So you better not think about dying on me, Derek Hale, because I’m not going to let you do it.” 

There’s a car on the road and it’s approaching, but listening to it draws his ears from Stiles. That’s not safe right now. 

“Tell me a story,” Derek says, shutting his eyes again.

“I will. Soon. My dad’s here, okay? We’re gonna fix this.”

Derek nods. “You did the right thing,” Derek says. He’s not sure if it’s true, not yet, but it’s what Stiles needs to hear right now.

“ _Stiles_? _Derek_?” the Sheriff’s voice calls. “Oh my God. Okay. Your face. And there’s a body. We need to clean this up. _Fuck_.” There’s a stunned silence at the swear word.

“It was self-defense, Dad,” Stiles says. His voice sounds a little hollow, like he’s not really sure. “He shot Derek. Four times. But it’s gonna be okay. Deaton’s on his way. We’re gonna fix Derek up. He’s going to be fine.” 

“Who is he?” the Sheriff asks. 

“Hunter. Not friendly with the Argents,” Stiles says. “Call Victoria, though, because they should deal with it. We take care of rogue werewolves, they take care of rogue hunters. This is their jurisdiction.”

“Alright. Deaton’s got something for Derek? He’s going to be okay?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Derek says, lying through his teeth. “A-okay.” With the pain and the distraction, he’s losing focus, losing control. It’s not a good time for that.

Stiles squeezes his hand. “Shut up, you. And Dad? Can you…I need to talk to him, I think. It helps.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll call the Argents.” His footsteps lead away, and Stiles’ hand touches Derek’s face again. 

“Hey, you still with me?” 

Derek nods. “Talk to me. Anything. A story,” he repeats.

“What, like _once upon a time_?” Stiles says, and his smile is in his voice. “I don’t have any stories….But sometimes I have this dream. It’s a good dream, and I don’t have a lot of those. But it’s good, and I don’t think I started having it before you. Well, I _know_ I didn’t because you’re in it. But anyway.” Stiles brushes the hair back from his temples. “So, in this dream, I’m always just waking up. I’m on my floor and I’m sitting there on this rug that’s trying to swallow me, and my skin is falling off. And Scott is there, and my dad, and my mom, and sometimes Lydia, and they’re standing there, watching my skin fall off. It’s _embarrassing_ , you know? Like, they’re all going to see my muscles and organs and whatnot. _Ew_.

“So I get up and I leave my room and it’s not my hallway. It’s, well, it’s your old house. The walls are white inside, I think Lydia told me that once, and I’m trying to find a mirror. Because I want to see my skin falling off. So I go upstairs and I’m in this room, and there’s this full-length mirror. I stand there, and my skin is just peeling and falling onto the floor. But there’s just more skin beneath it. 

“I don’t know what to do, but then you’re there, and fur keeps poking through your skin and falling to the floor, like you’re shedding. But you’ve got human skin. I ask you why you’re there, and you say _I’m always right here_. So I ask you what we should do about the whole shedding situation, and you say _This is what rebirth looks like. This is what you have to become_. That’s freaky shit, right? And I just get kind of crazy and start trying to tear my skin off until you grab me by the shoulders and hold me in front of the mirror and say _Look. This is what you are_. And I’m just me. Just Stiles. And it’s like that’s a _good_ thing, you know? I never felt like that before. But I guess it’s just…you never wanted to change me, and I never felt like I was letting you down by just being me. I felt like _me_ was useful. I mean, that was before I fucked everything up tonight, but whatever. Before, it was good, wasn’t it?”

“It’s still good,” Derek says. “I’m sorry. If I wasn’t… _me_ , then this wouldn’t have happened. We’d be fine.”

“If you weren’t _you_ , I wouldn’t _know_ you.”

“For the best. Don’t you think?”

Stiles sighs heavily. “If you weren’t in mortal peril right now, I would _throttle_ you for that. Okay? Don’t say shit like that. Ever. Because you’re not stupid, Derek, but that’s a pretty fucking stupid thing to say. I don’t even want to _think_ about what would have happened to all of us without you. And me? I’m pretty damn glad you’re around, okay? So don’t ever say that again.” 

“Hey,” the Sheriff says, and Derek cracks open his eyes to see him squat down next to him. “You’re gonna fine, son. Alright? Deaton’s almost here. We’re gonna get you patched up and it’ll all be fine. By tomorrow, you’ll just be sorry your date got ruined.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles complains. “Don’t make it weird. You _know_ how it is.”

The Sheriff looks at Derek, then at Stiles. “ _Yeah_ , Stiles, I do. I really do. And I’m just saying, _now_ might be a good time.” 

“He knows already, okay?” Stiles says heavily. “Now go away so he can focus. You’re making me a bad anchor.” 

Derek shakes his head, says, “You’re not a bad anchor. Doing great.” He grips Stiles’ hand a little tighter, not too tight, but it _hurts_ , even though he’s going into that numb place. Which he can’t do yet. Once he goes numb, he won’t have much time left. And he can’t just die like this. That’s not okay. 

And the worst part is, even now, Stiles looks stupidly beautiful. 

“I won’t let you go,” Stiles says, squeezing his hand back. “No matter what. You’re not getting off that easy. Besides—“ Stiles’ voice cracks “—you owe me a dance, asshole. Don’t you dare forget.” His eyelashes are clumping together because his eyes are wet, and he ducks his head against his shoulder to wipe his nose, then winces at the contact because he’s not used to it being broken. 

Derek shakes his head. “You better not be crying for me. Idiot.” Stiles coughs and cracks a grin. The dried blood around his mouth flakes. 

“You know, when you say it, it sounds like a term of endearment. Better be careful there. I might start getting ideas.”

“Not saying they’re the wrong ones,” Derek says. 

Stiles makes a noise of exasperation, rolls his eyes, says, “When you’re all better, we need to have a talk about signals and how you’re giving me mixed ones, buddy. Because I have absolutely no idea what to think with you. _Ever_.”

There’s nothing really to say to that, or there is, but this isn’t the time or the place, not if he’s going to live.

“Oh fuck yes, thank God,” Stiles breathes. He’s looking up at the road. “Hey, you’re gonna be okay. Hang in there, alright? Just a few more minutes and you can go to sleep.” His fingers are brushing Derek’s face, and that feels like some sort of holy benediction, like he’s being told a secret of the world that nobody else knows. Because he’s losing it. His mind is drifting because he’s too weak to hold it down. But he needs to focus on his body. The important thing is that his body doesn’t heal. He can do that. 

He holds himself still, forces his body into a sort of paralysis. 

A car door slams and Stiles doesn’t get up, but he moves like he wants to.

“Here, over here! Bring everything over here.”

His voice sounds so quiet. It’s so soft. Derek wants to wrap himself up in it and just sleep for a long, long time. He’s fought for long enough, hasn’t he? He’s given his best effort. It’s time to stop now. It’s time to just let go. 

“Don’t,” Derek says, maybe too softly, “don’t ever think I didn’t.”

“No, don’t you fucking _dare_!” It sounds like it’s coming from far away. “Jesus, I’m sorry, this is probably going to hurt.”

There’s a sharp pressure on his chest, and when he cracks open his eyes, there’s a giant syringe sticking in him and Stiles is pressing down the plunger. 

And then everything _burns_.

 

When Derek comes to, he’s in his bed. There’s familiar breathing next to him: Stiles is asleep. Sitting up against the headboard like he’s on watch. His eyes and nose are a colorful mess of bruises.

It’s daytime, but what day in particular is a mystery. 

There’s a noise downstairs. The clinking of a mug on the counter. Derek gets up, stiff, and goes downstairs.

The Sheriff is in his kitchen, and Isaac is nowhere near. 

“You’re up! Thank God,” the Sheriff says. “I’ll pour you some coffee. Is he…?”

Derek shakes his head. “Asleep.”

“ _Good_. I sent the others to school an hour ago, but Stiles has been awake since Saturday night. He needed his rest.”

“What day is it? What happened?”

The Sheriff pours, humming. “It’s Monday,” he says. “That night was one of the worst of my life. We thought we’d lost you a couple times there. Your heart stopped, you know. And it wasn’t pretty. When they…there was a lot of black goop, and I think you may have actually forced bullets out of your body at one point. It was more than I’d like to see in a lifetime. You were passed out for most of it. We brought you here, and everyone’s been watching over you since. Stiles hasn’t left your side, and he’s been refusing to sleep, so I gave him decaf a few hours ago.”

Derek nods, taking it in. 

“Is there any food?” he asks, very much aware that he’d like to eat an entire large mammal. 

“There’s a burger from last night in the fridge. I’ll heat it up for you. Here,” he says, giving Derek a cup of coffee as he grabs a styrofoam carton out of the fridge. He pulls the patty and cheese out of the burger, sets them on a plate with the fries, and nukes them for a while. Derek tries the coffee, but it’s too hot, so he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and ends up downing the whole thing in one go. 

“I think I said some things,” he says as he sets the empty bottle down on the counter. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised by that in the least,” the Sheriff tells him as he reassembles the burger. “But he hasn’t spoken much since. I don’t think he thought you’d wake up.” Derek wants to say something, but he’s not really in a good place for words because the burger smells _amazing_ and he _needs_ it. 

It takes him _maybe_ a minute to finish off the burger. 

He takes his time with the fries. 

“I don’t know if I ruined anything,” Derek says. “I don’t know if I was even _coherent_. But I know that I can feel him, and the thing is, it’s not any different from before. I can hear his heartbeat in the back of my mind and it doesn’t feel _new_. I didn’t want this for him.”

“Maybe he wanted it for himself.” The Sheriff takes a sip of coffee, raising his eyebrows in question over the rim of the mug. 

Derek’s forming a response when Stiles’ pulse picks up, fast, into panic mode. He’s running to the stairs.

“Dad!” Stiles yells. “Did he—“ He sees Derek and his whole body relaxes, sags. “Oh, thank God, I almost had a heart attack.” His heart’s still pounding, but it’s slowing, even though he’s breathing fast. 

“He’s fine,” the Sheriff tells him. “Go back to sleep. You _need_ it.” He gives him the kind of look that doesn’t allow protest. 

“Fine. Whatever.” Stiles sighs and tromps off back into Derek’s room. 

“I’m going to have to go talk to him,” Derek says. 

The Sheriff nods. “I know. Finish eating and go ahead. I’m going to go to work.” He pulls Derek into a hug without warning. “I’m glad you’re still with us, son.” He’s smiling when he pulls back, that warm smile that wraps Derek up inside of it.

With a pat on the shoulder, he leaves. 

Derek stuffs the remaining fries into his mouth and chews quickly, taking the stairs. At the bedroom door, he swallows, prepares himself for a moment, then slips inside. 

“Thank God. I don’t know _how_ he was expecting me to sleep after that scare,” Stiles says, sitting up, “but I realized my other option was school, so…”

Derek sits on the bed, hesitant to move any closer. “You _do_ need to sleep, you know.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that. They’ve been telling me that for…well, since we got you here.”

“I know how long it’s been, and I know you need to _sleep_.” It comes out weird. 

“But you didn’t come up here to talk about that, did you?”

After a second, Derek shakes his head.

“Good, because we have other things to talk about. Now, I was thinking I could do it with a note, put those little check boxes on it, but I’d rather get right to the point: do you like me, Derek? Because sometimes it seems like you do, and I mean, I’m your _anchor_ , so…I just don’t know to do with the information I have. I don’t know how to interpret it.”

“How I feel doesn’t matter because—“

“Nope, that’s self-deprecating bullshit. I’m not letting you feed me that.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says heavily. “It doesn’t matter because _nothing’s changing_. You’re not ready for a relationship with someone like me, it’s too much—“

“Are you _serious_ right now?” Stiles asks, almost a yell. “Don’t make this my fault, okay? I’m ready and I’ve made my choice about it and I _want_ _to be with you_. I know it won’t always be easy, but that’s okay. We’ll make it alright.”

Derek shakes his head. “No. You’re only sixteen, and you—“

“ _Fuck_ you. I’m _seventeen_ , goddammit, not that anyone but Scott noticed my birthday because everyone was too busy giving each other the cold shoulder. But I’m _seventeen_ , and I turn eighteen in three months, and don’t you _dare_ say my age is a problem here. Because it’s not. It’s just an excuse. For the fact that _you_ are not ready. And that’s _okay_. I’m not asking you to marry me or fuck me sideways right here and right now, alright?” His eyes fall and his hands twist the sheets and, softer, he says, “I don’t need anything to change, I just need to know if I’m alone in this.” 

“You’re not,” Derek says, because he can’t handle seeing Stiles like this, like the fight’s gone out of him, and because it’s true. “You’re not, I just can’t.” 

That seems to be enough.

“Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

Derek looks at him, at the clear gold of his eyes, the purple and green bruises on his face, and the hopeful curve of his mouth, and he nods.

 

It’s almost an hour before Stiles falls asleep again. When he’s down for good, deeply enough that he won’t wake if Derek disentangles himself, Derek leaves him a note in case he wakes and heads out. For a run at first, just to test his body a little, to make sure everything’s in good working condition. He’s all healed, but in the shower, for the first time in his life, he thinks he should see scars. It almost feels weird to walk away from that with nothing to show for it. But that’s his way. His past can be erased. The only evidence is his memory, and things can be forgotten. 

After walking around his living room aimlessly for half an hour, he decides to just drop by at the station. Just for a little while. The pack will be done with school in a couple hours, so he’ll be home by then. 

 

Fisher brightens when Derek comes in.

“Hey, Chief! Your throat feeling better? I know when I got _my_ tonsils out, I was on an ice cream diet for almost a _week_.” He’s a nice kid, and he thinks Derek is basically the shit, which is sometimes hilarious and sometimes weirdly touching. 

“Nah,” Derek says, making his voice a little hoarse, “still hurts like a bitch, but I got tired of being cooped up. The Sheriff in his office?”

Fisher shakes his head. “No, man. He hasn’t come in today. Had some back pain and said he was going to the doctor. He should be in tomorrow, though.” That’s _weird_. Really weird. 

“Alright. Thanks. I just wanted to thank him for helping me out with, you know, the surgery.” They _do_ operate on tonsils, right? That’s a thing, Derek’s sure. “I’ll see you round, Fisher.” Derek throws up a hand in a lazy wave, and Fisher beams the way he always does when Derek remembers his name. If it weren’t a terrible idea, well, he’d probably make a good werewolf. The kind of person who needs to please does well in a pack. 

 

The Sheriff’s not at home, either. The cruiser’s not in the driveway. That’s when Derek starts to get a bit antsy. 

He’s probably out getting food, something Stiles wouldn’t let him have. That would make sense. But it wouldn’t hurt to check a couple other places. 

 

Deaton looks surprised to see Derek up and about. He’s in the middle of setting a young German Shepherd’s broken foot when Derek comes in the back. 

“You look remarkably more healthy since the last time I saw you.”

“It probably helps that I’m conscious,” Derek says, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Generally, yes. What can I help you with today?”

Derek looks at the dog, who’s getting a little anxious, so he touches its back to calm it down. “I was wondering if you’ve seen the Sheriff around today.” Derek leeches some of the dog’s pain as Deaton starts laying on a cast. 

“I haven’t,” Deaton says, “but try Chris. I think they’ve been talking since the whole business the other night. Apparently, there were some unknown hunters at the dance as well. I think they’ve been trying to sort that out.” _Weird_.

“He didn’t tell me that.”

Deaton shrugs. “He probably just didn’t want to give you any extra stress while you were recovering. I wouldn’t worry about it. Now how’s Stiles doing?”

“Sleeping,” Derek says with half a smile.

“He was really worked up, you know. The thought of losing you terrified him.” It’s said with a meaningful look.

“We’ve talked about…things. We have an understanding.”

Deaton nods, smiling a little. “ _Good_. It’s about time you had that conversation.”

There’s nothing really to say to that. Maybe it _was_ long overdue, but nothing really feels any different, so what was the point? If nothing was changed by it, why should they have talked at all?

“I’m going to drop by the Argents. I’ll see you around,” Derek say quickly. He lifts his hand off the dog; she’s fine, a little sleepy, maybe.

“Goodbye, Derek.”

 

The cruiser isn’t in the Argents’ driveway, but Derek goes up to the door anyway. They might be able to point him in the right direction, at any rate. 

By the time he’s on the doorstep, he knows that Chris is out, but Victoria’s halfway to the door from the den.

“Yes?” she asks. She seems almost thankful to be interrupted. 

“You haven’t seen the Sheriff today, by any chance?”

Her eyes narrow. “He and Chris left a couple hours ago. Why?”

“Just haven’t seen him around. I was concerned. But if he’s with Chris, then he must be fine.”

“They’re doing reconnaissance on the hunters in town. They’re not ours. Not directly, anyway,” she says, and Derek frowns. “Just come in. I’ll explain over coffee.” 

She seems both reluctant to offer and insistent about it. It’s weird, but weird is a few steps up from openly hostiles, so he’s not going to complain. 

“I haven’t burned a pot of coffee since this whole…” she gestures at them both “ _business_.” They’re in the kitchen and she’s taking a couple of mugs out of the cabinet next to the stove. “I’ve never had any culinary prowess, that was always Chris’ area of expertise, but I can make a decent pot of coffee now. That’s something, I suppose.” 

“Do you hate it?” he asks because he can see the advantages for a hunter, but she doesn’t seem too pleased.

Victoria frowns. “I wouldn’t say that. It wouldn’t be an issue if they hadn’t done such a good job covering everything up. But when you’re legally dead and most of your town thinks you’ve killed yourself, it can a less than outstanding situation. In theory, we could just _move_ , but we’ve agree to stay in town until Allison graduates. Moving around after the start of junior year can sabotage the college admissions process, which she seems oddly _intent_ on putting herself through, and, well, there’s Scott. She wouldn’t agree to move away from him, and after everything, I’d rather not have my daughter hate me.” She looks down, like she’s surprised at herself for saying so much. “I’m sorry. I suppose I haven’t really talked to anyone outside of my family for a while.” 

“It’s fine. I didn’t talk to anyone but my sister for almost a year once. It builds up.” She nods, handing him a cup of coffee. Derek accepts it and holds it in his hands instead of setting it down on the counter.

“I’m sorry for what she did,” Victoria says, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know if anyone from the family’s every told you that, but I am sorry. We knew she was wild, but we didn’t know she was quite so _unhinged_. I know that doesn’t change anything, but if we’d known what she was planning, we would’ve never allowed it. And Gerard…she was always his favorite. I couldn’t control him. That was the price of coming into this family from the outside.” 

“I know. I know you have a code and that you follow it and he didn’t.” He tries the coffee; a little too hot, but not too hot to swallow. “I don’t think I ever realized that you weren’t always one of them.” 

There’s a moment of odd, tense silence before she says, “We had a cabin in the woods when I was young, and one winter, an omega killed my parents. We had this axe for chopping fire wood, and I drove it through the beast’s skull. They were tracking it, Chris and Gerard, and they found me standing there, covered in blood, trying to kill it for a second time because it started healing. After they did what needed to be done, I asked them if they’d take me with them, and that was that. They trained me, and Chris and I…it happened how those things do. But I had to fight for him. To marry into the family, there are trials. Of strength, intelligence, morality. I had to pass Gerard’s tests, and Kate never loved me for it. _She_ was supposed to be the head of the family.” She seems like she’s deep in memory, somewhere Derek can’t even imagine. He has no idea what it might be like to be part of a family built around killing. 

“I wasn’t supposed to be Alpha,” Derek says. “But these days, it looks like it might turn out okay. I think it depends on what you do with what’s given to you. And I think you’ve done better than could be expected.”

She smiles and it’s weird because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything other than a tight line on her face. It’s not a long smile, it’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile, but he catches it. 

“So, Chris and the Sheriff,” Derek starts, sensing a need for a subject change. 

“Ah,” she says, taking a sip of coffee. “That’s something of a mess. See, there are different branches of the family. We’re part of the main branch, the most direct line, but there are others. Some hunt, like we do. Others, well, there are scientists. Or that’s what they call themselves. They’re the reason we know how many volts it takes before a werewolf can’t heal anymore. They do experiments, and no, I don’t know the details and I don’t care to, but they hire people to collect… _subjects_. They’re bounty hunters, essentially. And that’s who Chris and Mr. Stilinski are looking for.” 

“That’s dangerous,” Derek says, fingers tightening around his mug.

“No more than it would be for either of us. Both of them are trained and comfortable with firearms. Besides, they’re only looking. They’re trying to find their base of operations. It’s not an attack.” They might not think of it like that, but the hunters probably have a different idea. “Look, why don’t you call Chris and talk to him.” 

Of course. Because Derek was stupid enough to forget that he has a _phone_. 

A phone that’s not on him. 

A phone that must be somewhere at his apartment. 

“Can I use your phone?” Derek asks. 

Victoria points at the landline sitting on the counter. “Help yourself.”

Derek doesn’t remember Chris’ number, but it’s the Sheriff he wants anyway. Because he’s _worried_. The Sheriff shouldn’t have to deal with these sorts of people. It’s too dangerous for him.

The Sheriff doesn’t answer, though. 

That’s not a good sign. That’s a really _bad_ sign.

Derek tries again and, again, nothing. 

He’s starting to panic. Instinct is telling him that’s something’s _wrong_ , really wrong, and he’s not ready for that. He needs to figure out a plan, to do something productive. He needs to _find the Sheriff_.

“I’ve got to go,” he says quickly. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Victoria calls after him, but he’s _going_. 

 

First attempt is the school. 

He can feel the werewolf members of his pack sense him as soon as he gets out of his car. They should be listening for him, the way he’s listening to them, which will make things go much faster. 

“Where’s Danny?” he asks, thankful that there’s no one outside the school to wonder why he’s talking to himself. 

“ _Computer lab_ ,” Scott answers, hiding it in a cough. “ _You okay_?”

“Fine. Just need Danny,” he says, walking quickly into the building. If he remembers right, the computer labs are on the second floor in the east wing, opposite the gym and pool. He walks with purpose, breezing by the one kid who opens his mouth as if to ask why he’s there. 

Danny’s in the second computer lab, some kind of independent study class, going by how few people are in the room. Derek enters the room quietly, slips over to where Danny’s sitting with headphones on. There’s aggressive techno music coming from the speakers. Derek pulls one off Danny’s ear, spooking him a little. 

“What do you want, Sleeping Beauty?” he asks, voice low as he looks around to make sure no one sees. 

“If I give you the number, can you find a cell phone? With GPS or something?” 

Danny’s eyes narrow. “Yeah. What do you have?” Derek rattles off the number while Danny pulls up a web browser and Derek loses interest after that. 

There’s only a couple of other kids in the room. Three of them are in the corner, obviously playing some sort of online game. There’s a girl who seems like she’s actually _doing_ something, but that’s it. There’s no teacher. Probably not a—

“Here you go,” Danny says, gesturing at a map on the screen. “It’s been in the same place for twenty minutes.” Derek scans the map, figuring out exactly where it is, committing it to memory.

“Thanks. Make sure the others know I’m fine, and don’t tell Stiles that I came to see you.” Derek leaves before Danny can ask why because he might not have _time_ for explanations. So he walks quickly, almost a run, back to his car and peels out of the parking lot. 

 

It doesn’t take long. The Sheriff’s phone is near the preserve, at the base of the cliff. Which Derek’s not going to think about. Because the Sheriff is going to be fine. 

And then he finds the cruiser, pulled off the road near the tree line. That’s not a _strong_ heartbeat that he’s hearing. And it’s not normal, either. Not _even_. Not at all. And if he— He can’t. Stiles can’t lose him and Derek can’t lose him and it’s _not an option_.

Derek jumps out of his car, leaving his keys in the ignition, and _runs_. It’s irrational, but he can’t help yelling, “ _Dad!_ ” 

Because all he can hear is a faint, too-slow pulse.

Flinging open the door, he finds the Sheriff unconscious. He’s _barely_ breathing. This isn’t something Derek can fix because he doesn’t even know what’s _wrong_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes. “You’re going to be okay. You hear me, Dad, you’re going to be okay.”

He finds the Sheriff’s phone in the cup holder, calls 9-1-1, and tries not to lose it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence.  
> Gore.  
> Lots of discussion of sex with a minor, a few graphic mentions by an outsider.


	6. Forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Buddy Wakefield's "Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars".
> 
> This is it, you guys. I'm a little emotional right now. I've never written anything this long. Kind of freaked out about it actually. And I'm not gonna lie, I teared up a little. THANK YOU SO MUCH for reading and following and commenting!!  
> I do plan to write some little scenes and whatnot in this verse, but that'll mostly be for stress relief or solving other writer's block, so it probably won't be done with any regularity or in much of an order :/ If you have any requests for scenes (no promises, but I'll do my best!) you can hit me up at majestic-beard.tumblr.com
> 
> Warnings at the end

As Derek gets out of the ambulance, he spots a blue Jeep slamming its breaks in the hospital parking lot. Stiles breaks out of it, _runs_.

His body is torn between watching the paramedics lift the Sheriff onto a stretcher and catching Stiles so he doesn’t have to see. 

They meet in the middle, chasing after the gurney down the hall. Stiles’ hand finds Derek’s forearm and just holds on tight, like he’s afraid he’ll be blasted away by the rising tidewaters of panic and fear and desperation. Their steps echo down the linoleum halls, not quite loud enough to block out the paramedics’, Stiles’, his own frantic heartbeats or to cover up the erratic stumbling of the Sheriff’s. It’s not a good sound. It’s the kind of sound that makes Derek sick to his stomach. 

“We’ve gotta get him into an O.R. to clear the blockage in his coronary artery,” one of the paramedics says, looking at Derek and Stiles. “You need to stay behind. You can’t come with us, I’m sorry.” It doesn’t quite compute for Stiles, and Derek has to hold him back. 

“We’ll be in the waiting room,” Derek tells her. “Someone will find us and give us updates?”

The woman nods, then turns back to help guide the gurney through the doors into a long hallway he never wants to enter. 

“They don’t really have a waiting room,” Stiles says after a moment, his voice echoing in his chest. “But there’s some seats by the nurse’s station. I’ve spent a lot of time there.” 

Stiles leads him, and then he sits, this grim, blank look on his face. He settles into resignation with the ease of someone who’s had to wait for a loved one before because, well, he _has_. He sits there with his hands in his lap, eyes unfocused. His body is still. 

Derek sits next to him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, so Derek takes his hand. Gives a little squeeze. Just a reminder that he’s there and he’s not leaving any time soon. No matter what happens. If it’s the worst, well, Derek will be whatever he needs. He’ll put away his own grief for it.

They sit, backs straight and palms going sweaty, for over an hour before they say anything.

“I’ve planned for this, you know,” Stiles says. His voice is steady. “What to do if he… if it happens. I’ve always had this feeling that it would, eventually, I just thought it would be my fault. I mean, I could have been harder on him about his diet instead of letting him get away with things. And I know that. But I thought it would be more violent. I thought something would come for him in the night and I’d wake up to blood, wondering why I didn’t hear him scream.”

Derek seals his other palm against the back of Stiles’ palm as if holding him tightly enough could make everything better.

“I’m going to emancipate myself, which shouldn’t be too hard because I’m practically eighteen anyway. And I’ll sell the house. I don’t want to keep any of it. I’m not going to let myself wallow in them, you know? Then I know the McCalls will try to take me in, but I can’t do that to them. I know she can’t afford it. But I should have enough to find somewhere to live. And then I’ll come to you and ask you to make me strong enough to survive. I know you won’t agree right away, but I think I can get you to come around to the idea. From there, it goes two ways: either I leave this goddamn town and never come back, or, if you’ll let me, I’ll stay with you and you and me and Isaac can be a merry band of orphans together. And then we’ll figure out the rest of our lives the best we can.”

“We don’t know what’s going to happen,” Derek tells him. He’s not exactly _afraid_ that Stiles has a plan, or that the plan involves him, but he’s not comfortable with it either. 

“No, we don’t,” Stiles says. “Can you hear what’s going on?” 

“No,” Derek lies. He can, but he’s ignoring it because it’s too much to handle, because he won’t be able to understand anyway. 

Stiles’ head settles on his shoulder, and after a moment, he says, “I know you’re lying. I can feel your pulse in your hands. But it’s okay. I know you’re just trying to protect me. I didn’t expect you to tell me, anyway.” 

Everything about him is _calm_ , and that’s terrifying. Maybe because he’s done this before. Because it’s out of his hands now. Derek knows that if the Sheriff were bleeding in front of them, Stiles’ heart would be pounding as he tried to close the wounds with his hands. But he can’t do anything here, and maybe this is a place where Stiles has learned to be helpless. To _wait._ Patiently. 

Stiles is about to say someone when a nurse comes out of the doors. “Stilinski?” she asks, looking between them. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, jumping to his feet. “What’s going on?” Derek’s empty hands fall to his lap.

“I’m sorry that we’ve left you waiting so long. We’re a little short on staff today, so all hands on deck,” she explains. “You’re his son, right? I’ve seen you around here.” Stiles nods, and Derek can feel his urgency. “Well, he had a heart attack—“ which they know, they figured that out in the ambulance “—and he’s in surgery right now because we found signs of coronary artery disease. He’s undergoing a bypass, so they’re grafting sections of vein from his thigh so that his heart can take in blood properly. If everything goes well, he should be out of the O.R. in a couple hours.” 

“And after that, he’ll be fine, right?” Stiles asks. His hands are starting to shake. 

The nurse hesitates, which is enough, really, and Derek takes his hand. 

“It’s a serious procedure and as with any open-heart surgery, there are risks. We’ll know for sure how he responds in about twenty-four hours. Is there someone I can call or…” she trails off, looking at Derek like she’s trying to place who he is and how he fits in with them.

“No, I—“ Stiles takes a deep breath. “Is Melissa McCall here?”

The nurse checks her watch. “She should be here for her shift at the hour. Would you like me to call her? She might be able to come in a little early, I’m sure. You’re Scott’s age, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. He’s my best friend,” Stiles says softly, then picks himself up again. “No, it’s fine, we’re fine. Just let us know if anything changes?”

“Of course. If you need anything, the chapel’s down that hall and the bathrooms and vending machine are down that one. I’ll be at the desk. Okay?” 

Stiles nods. “Do I need to fill out any forms or anything?”

“Are you eighteen?” He shakes his head. “Then no. We’ll deal with that when he wakes up. Alright?” Stiles nods again, a ripple moving down his spine. He sits again, pulling his shaking hand out of Derek’s.

“I should call everyone. Let them know where we are. Do you wanna go? I mean, I can—“

“No, I’m staying with you,” Derek promises, looking him right in the eyes. “I’ll make the calls, don’t worry about it.” He pulls out his phone only for it to start ringing. He’s not sure who he’s expecting, but the screen reads _Sarah_. His thumb hits ignore not quite fast enough. 

“Who’s Sarah?”

“Hm? Oh, a friend from work,” he says, regretting it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. 

Stiles’ hand goes limp in Derek’s. “There aren’t any Sarah’s working for my father.” 

“Let me call Scott and then we can have this conversation, okay?” Derek tells him evenly, trying not to betray _just how much_ he doesn’t want to talk about it. Especially here. Here, of all places.

“Fine. Fine. Call Scott.”

Derek does.

“ _Hey, man, what’s up? Danny said you were acting sketchy. Everything good?_ ”

“The Sheriff had a heart attack. I’m with Stiles at the hospital. He’s in surgery and we won’t know anything for another couple hours.”

There’s the sound of something dropping, metal hitting metal. “ _Holy shit, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Lemme call my mom. Is he okay? Stiles, I mean._ ”

“Yeah. For the most part. We’re just waiting right now.” Derek glances at Stiles, who’s staring at the linoleum again. “You call your mom. I’ll talk to you later.” He hangs up quickly, not liking the look on Stiles’ face.

“She’s the one with the kid, isn’t she?” Stiles asks quietly. “I saw you. On the way to Trader Joe’s. You were at Chili’s, sitting by a window with her and some kid and you just looked so _happy_. I know I can’t give you that. I can’t give you a family and I can’t make you happy, I just thought…well, survivors gotta stick together, you know?” 

“I don’t want us to be together just because we’re both alive,” Derek tells him bluntly. “And you’ve already given me a family. That has nothing to do with it anyway. I’m doing it for you, I mean. Sarah is…she’s nice, alright? And I like her a lot, but I’m not I’m not doing right by her—“ Derek lets out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know how to do the right thing. There’s something wrong with me. That’s what it comes down to.” He glances up, sees that the nurse is very carefully not watching them.

“Yeah, I _know,_ we all have our issues, but how the _hell_ do you date _her_ for _me_? I know I’m not exactly an expert, but I don’t think that’s how it works.”

If he gives a true answer, the nurse is probably going to try to have him arrested. If he doesn’t, Stiles is going to know that he’s avoiding it and he’ll worry more than he needs to. There’s no way to win. There’s no way to even come out at a _draw_. He’s dug himself an ugly, deep hole with bad decisions and rationalization and stupid attempts at whatever the hell he’s doing.

“I’m a monster,” he whispers, just loud enough for Stiles to hear. “You’re too young for me to feel about you the way I do, and I needed to try something _normal_ for once. Just once. I shouldn’t have done it, but I thought it was the only way that I could make myself become the kind of person who would deserve you.” 

“ _Deserve_ me? Have you _met_ me? I have _plenty_ of flaws: I’m a loud-mouthed _asshole_ who doesn’t know when to stop; I’ve done really _awful_ stuff; I fixate on things and people to avoid dealing with the real world; I’m petty and I’m unfair. So I can safely say that whatever idea you have of me that you _don’t deserve_? You need to ditch it. Because this is _never_ going to work if you think that I’m this perfect fucking person.” 

Derek looks at him, at his total belief in that, and he wants to kiss him. To show him. Which is stupid because a kiss can’t do that, but maybe Derek just wants to kiss him in general. And maybe he _is_ something better to Derek, if only because Stiles himself can’t see it. And no, he’s not perfect, alright, he annoys the shit out of Derek sometimes and he does stupid things that drive him crazy, but he could stand to have a little more self esteem.

“You are, though,” Derek tells him weakly. “And one day, I’ll find a way to make you believe it.”

“Well, you’re an idiot, then,” Stiles says. But he grips Derek’s hand tighter. “And we’re not done with this conversation. I just…I can’t do this right now. There’s too much going on. I’ll say things I’ll regret, and I just— I can’t.”

They sit there for a moment, thinking about not thinking and holding onto each other like the last hope for a breath above water. 

 

Derek hears Scott get there before Stiles recognizes his footsteps. He’s running, panting a little, like he ran the whole way.

Stiles drops Derek’s hand and gets up when Scott yells his name. Relief leeches most of the tension from around his mouth and eyes when he sees his best friend. He meets Scott in a hug, lasting and intense and probably a little bit too tight, but seemingly in a good way.

“ _I’m sorry, man_ ,” Scott says. Stiles nods and sniffs in a wet breath, probably painful to his bruised nose. Derek wishes he could have that sort of relationship with someone, anyone. Or even just with Stiles. To have an unconscious understanding of him, to be able to give him enough comfort to cry with a single embrace. And maybe he could. Maybe if he let them grow closer, maybe then, but there’s no guarantee, and there’s too much to lose. But he’s not sure they could ever be like this. The only way for a relationship to run this deep and true is for it to be sexless in that familial way they’ll never have.

Derek averts his eyes until they separate. Scott comes over a moment later, letting Stiles sag like the battle’s over and he doesn’t care who won. Like he knows he’ll be okay, whatever happens. Derek will probably never be able to give him that feeling. 

“You look better than the last time I saw you. How are you…? You know,” Scott says. His smile is just one lifted corner, but it’s warm and comforting. And maybe it’s just _Scott_. Scott, who can put the world at ease if he likes you enough to try. 

Derek shrugs, nods, because what is there to say, really? They all know that it’s a shit situation right after another shit situation and there’s nothing any of them want more than for it to be over, for the Sheriff to be fine and all of their problems to disappear. But it doesn’t work like that, and they know it. No amount of love will make the Sheriff suddenly better. 

Scott touches his shoulder, squeezes once. 

“We just have to wait it out,” Stiles says. “Until we know what we’re dealing with.” He moves, stands near Derek, close enough that Derek can feel warmth. 

Derek hears Melissa McCall approaching, and a second later, Scott perks up, hearing her as well. Stiles turns and she wraps him up in a hug that he doesn’t seem to want to leave. The McCalls apparently have a talent for being what Derek can’t, but that’s balance, isn’t it? A person can’t be _everything_. Derek is the one who will make sure they’ll survive, whatever he has to compromise to do it, and Scott will be the one to put them all back together after. 

“ _Oh honey_ ,” Mrs. McCall whispers, “ _I’m so sorry. We’re going to handle it, okay? We’ll do the best we can. That’s all we can do._ ” 

Stiles wants a mother, Derek knows. He wants a second parent to lean on. And maybe that’s what she is to him. But Stiles has more than just that. He has a family. Not the one he was born with, but he has people. That’s something Derek can offer him, or something he knows they’ll offer him if he lets them know they can.

“Get the others here,” Derek tells Scott under his breath. “Tell them not to be weepy or anything, but just let him know that he has a support system. You can do that?” 

Scott nods. “Yes. I…” Scott smiles, and it’s small but meaningful. “I know you care about him. So thanks. He deserves it. And you’re not as much of a butthole these days either, so I’m okay with… _it_.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, and he means it, even if he’s not sure exactly what _Scott_ means. But Scott nods and heads off down the hall to make the calls he needs to, and Mrs. McCall lets Stiles go. He looks exhausted from letting so much love reach the surface. There’s a weight to his limbs when he sits back down. 

Mrs. McCall gives Derek a look that says what it needs to. 

It says that he’s doing the right thing and that he needs to keep doing it and that if he’s ever not, she’ll let him know and straighten him out. It says that she’s going to trust him, but that he shouldn’t think it’s unconditional, that her loyalty is not to him, it’s to her boys, and he better know that. It says that she’ll hold them together, but she’ll also fight for them, whether the odds are on her side or not, and Derek better recognize that. But for right now, right here, he’s doing alright by her and her boys. Her sons.

 

When the rest of the pack gets there, they have a sense of solidarity. 

“We know it’s an ugly situation right now,” Lydia says, “but time isn’t going to pass any quicker if you’re watching the minutes go by. So we’re going to distract you and stay with you if that doesn’t work. That’s what friends are for.”

“You’ll never guess what Finstock said during practice today,” Isaac starts, and Jackson snorts at the memory. 

And the seven of them talk to him, tell them about the day, about anything they can think of, and Stiles isn’t exactly _comfortable_ , because he’s thinking about his dad, of course he is, but at least they give him something else to think about too. Something less than painful. It’s better than Derek could do by himself, but that’s the _point_. The strength of the pack is that your weaknesses are someone else’s strengths. That’s why it works, why they do it. And the fact that it’s working now means that Derek hasn’t failed at something. He can’t take full credit for it, obviously not, but he’s done his best to bring them together and keep them like that, and that’s something. 

 

A while, a long while later, Mrs. McCall, in scrubs, comes out of the door they’re not supposed to enter and everyone goes quiet.

“He’s out of surgery,” she says. “They’ve moved him to the ICU. His…” she takes a deep breath, continues, “his brain activity is our main concern right now. It’s too soon to tell for sure, but there’s a chance he’s in a coma right now. He’s getting the absolute best care we have to offer, and we’ll know for sure in a few hours. I’m sorry, kiddo. Hang in there, alright? We’re doing everything we can.” Stiles nods slowly, taking the information in. 

“We’re going to stay with you as long as we need to, okay?” Allison says, touching Stiles’ arm. “We’re right here. Whatever you need.”

He smiles, but it’s empty. “Thanks, guys. I just…I need a moment, okay? I’ll be right back.” He heads off in the direction of the restroom, and everyone shares this look, trying to figure out if someone should go with him. Derek lets Scott make the call on that one, since he’s the Stiles expert, and he shakes his head. Mrs. McCall is worried, partially for Stiles of course, but for the Sheriff too. Derek can see it in the wrinkle between her brows, but then she gives everyone a small smile and disappears again. 

“Is anyone else hungry?” Jackson asks. “I’m going to order some pizzas.” 

Derek’s not paying attention; he’s listening to Stiles wash his face and breathe, the drum of his fingers on the sink, the beat of his heart. He’s okay, or he’s not panicking at least, but he’s in distress. Well, who wouldn’t be? But sometimes people need privacy to pull themselves together, so Derek doesn’t go to him. He knows better than that. 

But Derek’s worried. About Stiles, about the fact that the Sheriff might not wake up, about everything. He’s not _letting_ himself think about it too much, but it’s hard. He’s keeping himself off it, keeping himself adrift by focusing his worry on Stiles. That’s something he can do something about, so that’s all he’ll acknowledge. 

It’s going to be okay.

(It isn’t.)

 

It’s almost midnight by the time Mrs. McCall comes out with the set to her shoulders that means she has news. 

It isn’t good. 

The Sheriff isn’t just not waking up; there’s no activity in his brain. 

Stiles is very, very still when he hears this. His hands are in his lap, and they look cold. His face is blank, too blank, which means his mind is working. He’s probably preparing himself for an eventuality. He’s probably running through his worst case scenario. 

“There’s still a chance he’ll wake up. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” Mrs. McCall says. “Nothing’s certain yet.” 

Stiles doesn’t acknowledge that. His eyes are unfocused. 

“There’s nothing we can do but wait.”

But that’s not what he wants to hear. Because Stiles has waited for him mother to die, and there’s no way he wants to wait for his father to go, too. Derek touches his back, lightly, just something to ground him a little bit. Because he’s not _here_ , and that’s not good. 

“I want to go home,” Stiles says. “There’s nothing I can do here. I don’t want to sit here and do nothing. I want to sleep or something. I can’t just sit here and wait any longer.” 

Derek looks at Scott. “Take him home.” 

Scott will make sure he’s okay. Scott will give him what Derek can’t. Because Derek can kill for Stiles or die for him, but he can’t make him want to keep living. He can’t even do that much for himself.

“Sleep,” Derek tells Stiles. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Stiles’ nod is delayed, and he lets Scott lead him away. 

“You can all go home,” Derek tells the rest of the pack. “You have school tomorrow.” 

 

There’s no way to get comfortable in a waiting room chair. Derek realizes that slowly, after more than a few tries. That’s okay, though, because he’s not going to sleep anyway. He’s slept enough over the past few days. 

 

Time passes slowly. There’s no distraction, really. He tries to see if he can hear Stiles’ heartbeat from this distance. He can’t. But he can hear all sorts of things outside. And he can hear babies crying in the Neo-Natal ward and a dog barking out past the parking lot and cars passing by outside, their radios, the people inside, passing by a hospital and knowing that there must be people inside who are dying. Derek’s done it a hundred times. That’s the way it works: you try not to think about the people around you who are breaking down so you can ignore the simple truth of your own fragility. Everyone dies, and even if they come back, like Peter, there’s always a price. Things are supposed to end. That’s why they start.

 

There’s nothing.

No change. No calls. No one shows up. Which is good, it is, because Stiles shouldn’t be here for this, but it’s still a surprise that he isn’t. 

The hands of the clock move around and around, and there’s nothing.

 

In the middle of the afternoon, Scott calls.

“ _Hey, can you ask Stiles if he wants me to bring him some homework? His phone is turned off_.” 

Derek frowns, looking around just to be sure he’s not hallucinating. “Stiles isn’t here. He hasn’t been here since last night.” 

There’s a heavy pause. “ _He told me he was heading over there when he left this morning. What do you_ mean _he hasn’t been there all day?_ ”

“I’m telling you, he’s not here. Track his phone, okay? I don’t like the sound of this,” Derek says. “Then _call me_. We’ll find him.”

 _Fuck_.

 

Twenty minutes later, Scott calls back. Derek answers on the first ring because he’s _waiting_.

“Where is he?” he demands.

“ _GPS said he’s at his house, but he’s not here. His phone is just sitting on his bed. Shit, Derek, what do we do?_ ”

Derek takes a deep breath, and, glancing at the desk nurse, whispers, “He’s not dead. I would know, alright, so we know that, at least. If he thought the hunters were responsible for what happened with his dad, he’d go after them, wouldn’t he? So we need to find them and hope he hasn’t already.” 

“ _Chris is tracking them, isn’t he? I’ll call him. We’ll find Stiles. We will._ ” 

But if Scott’s calling Chris, then Derek’s doing nothing. He’s waiting. He’s sitting and waiting and helpless for it. But he has to. The Sheriff. Derek can’t just _leave_. Someone needs to be here in case he wakes up.

“Let me know how that goes,” Derek tells him weakly. 

 

A few minutes later, there’s a text from Scott: **We’re heading there. Me, Chris, Isaac, Boyd, Allison, and Jackson**. **Not safe for you. Won’t kill unless we have to.**

 

And Derek sits. 

Waits. 

Because that’s all he can do this time. It feels like the worst thing, but that’s what he’s stuck with. He wants to punch open a wall, but this is what he has to do. It’s all he can do.

Does he rip something apart? No, but he leaves deep scratches on the underside of the armrests of his chair. The plastic falls from his claws in little black curls. 

 

Scott calls again only moments later.

“ _He’s not here. We can hear them all inside, but he’s not here, Derek._ ” 

“ _Yet_. Wait for him. If he was trying to do it quietly, he wouldn’t have asked Chris. Maybe he just hasn’t found them on his own yet. Wait there.” Derek hangs up only to see an incoming call from Deaton. “What do you need?” he asks quickly. He doesn’t have time or energy for it, whatever it is.

“ _Something’s happening on the preserve_ ,” Deaton tells him. “ _We set up wards to alert us after that affair with the witches, and there’s someone there. Whatever they’re doing, I want to find out. I’m heading there right now, but I might need back-up._ ” 

Derek looks at the desk nurse. “Drop by the hospital. I’ll come with you.” He hangs up and gives the nurse his number to text him if there’s any change in the Sheriff’s condition, and then he’s heading outside to wait.

 

“What do we know?” Derek asks as he slides into Deaton’s Range Rover. 

“Not much. There’s an intruder who entered our wards. That’s all we know for sure. The system’s not very sophisticated yet, but we’re working on it.”

Derek huffs a sigh. “Do we know _where_?”

“They entered from the east side. We don’t know where they went after that.” He looks at Derek, then shifts his eyes back to the road. “How’s the Sheriff doing?”

“Comatose. _That_ ’s how he’s doing,” Derek snaps, then regrets it. “Sorry. We’re just worried.”

“Did you leave Stiles there by himself?” 

Derek winces. “No. We’re not sure where he is right now. He told Scott he was coming to the hospital, but he knows how to hide a lie. He’s MIA. We figured he’d go after the hunters, so that’s where everyone else is, but he hasn’t shown up yet. Basically, everything’s a fucking mess right now.”

“There’s a chance our mystery intruder is Stiles. He might have just gone for a walk to clear his head.” Deaton doesn’t sound convinced, and Derek isn’t either. “He’s probably just upset.”

“Stiles doesn’t believe in walking through the woods,” Derek tells him. “He wouldn’t be there if he didn’t have a very good reason.” 

Deaton makes a little noise between a hum and a sigh, but says nothing.

 

A couple minutes he gets a text: **Sheriff Stilinski is awake. We’re running tests on him now. Will update.**

Of course. Because it’s not until he leaves that the Sheriff wakes up. That’s how it works. Things you’re waiting for never happen if you’re waiting. People don’t show up at your door until you stop waiting to go pee. It’s the way of the universe to be as inconvenient as possible.

But Derek feels his body settle into something like relief. Muscles he didn’t know were clenched relax. The weight in his chest shrinks.

 

When they pull up at the edge of the woods, Deaton gets out to check the wards, then gets back into the car. 

“They’re not broken. You can get in, but you’ll need help getting out. It’s a trap, to keep rogue omegas like the one from last March away from the population. Lets the supernatural in but doesn’t let them out.”

“Smart.”

Deaton shrugs. “Not my idea.” He drives forward, heading into the woods. Derek rolls down the window.

“I can smell him,” he says. 

A few minutes late, he’s in range to hear him. 

“He’s far, on the other side of the preserve. Over by the old house.”

“Can you tell what he’s doing?”

Derek shuts his eyes, focusing on his hearing. Usually, Derek has a range of about a mile, but this is at least twice that. Stiles’ heart comes to him easily, like a broadcast, but he has to strain to pick out anything else at this distance. 

“It’s too far,” Derek says at last. “I can’t tell.” 

As they drive on, Derek grips the door handle tighter and tighter. Stiles’ pulse is steady, but Derek has a bad feeling. It feels wrong, all of it.

When they’re close enough for him to hear, Derek says, “He’s saying something. I don’t know what. I don’t think it’s English.” He looks to Deaton because he’s starting to smell a little off. Like he’s guilty. “What’s going on?”

“I may have made an error in judgement. It would have been fine, but I didn’t expect anything to happen to the Sheriff.”

“ _What’s going on_?” Derek repeats, voice low as his claws extend.

Deaton sighs. “The witches left something behind. A book. I kept it in my office, but I let Stiles look at it from time to time. It went missing a couple of weeks ago, but I knew that he was the one who had it, so it wasn’t as if I didn’t know where it was. I thought it was good that he took the initiative to apply himself to exploring what he can do, so I didn’t try to get it back.”

“So what you’re telling me is that right now, Stiles, who’s _emotionally distraught_ , has a book of magic that was likely _left specifically for him_ by an antagonistic party?”

“I _didn’t know this would happen_ , Derek,” Deaton grinds out. “Yes, I made a bad decision by ignoring that he had it. But getting upset isn’t going to fix that, now is it?” 

Derek takes a deep breath and calms himself down because Deaton’s right. They need to focus on getting Stiles out of whatever situation he’s gotten himself into. That’s what he’s going to do. 

It’s not going to be that easy, he realizes a moment later.

Because he can tell where Stiles is from the woods. The air is glowing in a dome around the back of the house, getting more and more thick and blurry at the center, where Stiles, little more than a bright light, is standing on the porch that Derek helped his dad build. Deaton stops the car, the air leaving his lungs loud enough to be audible to a human ear. 

Derek gets out, approaching, and that’s when he notices the ground. 

Spreading out from the center, where Stiles stands, what was once soil is dust, creeping outward for a radius of at least a dozen yards and growing. It looks like everything’s been sucked out of the ground. Weeds are shriveled and brown. There’s a rushing sound, building in volume.

“What the _hell_ is he doing?” Derek yells at Deaton. 

Deaton shakes his head. “I can’t stop this. I don’t even think _he_ can.”

“What do you mean? He’s a _kid_. How….” Derek glances back at the glowing blur of Stiles. “He’s not even a witch. He’s human. He’s just a _human kid_.”

“That’s the problem,” Deaton says. “For a witch, magic is natural. It’s energy, something they can harness. They can control it, store it, and use it, like a generator. But Stiles…he’s not a spark, he’s a _lightning rod_. He can take the energy around him and direct it somewhere, but he doesn’t have proper control over it. He’s just a channel. Too much, and there’s a chance it’ll burn right through him.” 

Derek looks at him, at where Stiles must be, at the approaching line of dead grass. “What do we do, then? How do we make him stop?”

“I’ve _told_ him that he needs to plan for a way out. Some way to stop things once they start. It has to come from him, though, and I’ve been telling him to work on it. If we’re lucky, he’s figured it out.”

“Then I can just go up there and ask him to stop. Right?” Deaton sort of shrugs, wincing, but Derek takes that as a _yes_ , and he _runs._

And then he feels like he’s on _fire_. 

He retreats, hearing a noise like a whimper come from his throat. Once he’s outside of the line of dead grass, the pain stops. Derek looks back at Deaton.

“He’s done something, I don’t know what,” Derek tells him, “but you should go. I’ll heal, but I don’t know what it would do to you.” After a second’s hesitation, Deaton nods and gets back in the car.

“I’ll wait for you from a distance,” he promises. 

And then Derek takes a deep breath and looks at the stretch of dead land between him and Stiles. It looks like it’s growing a couple feet a minute. Which gives him about ten minutes before it reaches the tree line, about half a football field from Stiles. Bouncing a little on the balls of his feet first to warm up, Derek resolves to try again.

At ten yards away, he’s not able to run anymore. His body won’t let him push through the pain that hard. So he walks. His body is pale and turning grey, and he’s pretty sure that _actually_ being on fire would hurt less than this, but he can see Stiles better now, and his eyes are _white_. They’re _glowing_. And he looks like he’s in pain, his body is straight and tense, like every muscle in his body is clenching at once. As he gets closer, as he climbs the porch stairs, Stiles becomes clearer and Derek can see the veins standing out on his neck, his forehead. 

Derek’s teeth are grinding against each other and when he reaches an arm out towards Stiles, his skin starts to fall off in splinters. Cracks of blood rise up down his fingers, the back of his hand, his arm, and it _burns_. Like no pain he can imagine. His mouth tastes like iron, salty and bitter, and he doesn’t stop. 

He might be yelling.

He doesn’t look at anything but Stiles because he doesn’t want to see what this is doing to his body. It’ll heal. 

Probably.

(His face might not be there anymore, but he’s afraid to check.)

That noise over the rush of energy is probably his scream, but he touches Stiles’ shoulder with a bloody-bone hand, and then the burning stops. Stiles doesn’t look at him — his eyes are comets in his face, the light bleeding from his nose and ears and the cracks between his lips where they’re pressed together too tight to form a seal — but whatever’s protecting Stiles from what he’s doing is protecting Derek too. His hand starts healing, new pink skin spreading over his knuckles.

He makes the mistake of looking down.

His shirt is soaked through red. His jeans are black, but they’re shining wetly in the thin light of Stiles’ body. There’s an all-over itch heating him from the inside-out: his skin growing back. Derek spits out a mouthful of blood over his shoulder and takes Stiles’ chin in a new-looking hand. His muscles are too tense for Derek to turn his head without hurting him. 

“ _Stiles!_ ” Derek yells, and there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

So he does the only thing he can think of: he slaps him across the face, not too hard, like Stiles is only unconscious. It doesn’t work. Probably because he’s awake, he’s just not in control of anything right now. 

But if he’s awake, he _might_ be listening.

Leaning in close to his ear, Derek says, “Stiles, you need to stop this. Shut it down. _Now_. Cut it off.” He pulls back, hands on Stiles’ shoulders. Tries to look him in the eyes.

Stiles doesn’t open his mouth, but over the roar of air and magic, there’s a voice that sounds something like his. “ _It’s too late now. I can’t stop it until it’s done._ ”

“What are you even _doing_?” Derek yells, frustrated and desperate and very, very afraid for what’ll be left of Stiles when it’s _done_. 

“ _I’m not letting him die. Only his body is alive, but I can fix it. I can put him back inside. And I’ll make it so he won’t ever get hurt again. He’s never going to die when I’m done_.”

Derek shakes his head, says, “He’s going to be fine. You can’t make someone live forever. It’s not natural. We’re _supposed_ to die.” That means the price of immortality is a beacon of a boy (a man) and a ring of death that might never stop. Not good. Not good at all.

“He _’s not supposed to die. He won’t have to when I’m done_.” 

Well, fuck. 

Derek needs a new plan of attack. 

“If he never dies, he’s going to have to watch _you_ die. You’re going to make him lose the person he cares most about. What do you think that’ll do to him, Stiles? It’ll be like losing your mother again, only this time, there won’t _be_ anyone for him to lean on. He’s going to be alone. Completely alone.” Stiles’ eyes snap to Derek. He can’t see irises or pupils, but he can _feel_ that they’re focused on him. “What do you think he’ll do if you force him to go through that? He might be alive, but he won’t _want_ to be.” Stiles’ eyes shut, white light fanning across his cheeks through his eyelashes. The rest of his body is still, muscles pulled tight. 

“ _I can’t stop it. I’m not strong enough. I can’t do it. It’s too much. I don’t know where I am. Derek? I don’t know where I am!_ ” His face draws itself length-wise through the middle, his eyebrows angling towards his forehead and his mouth opening so that light spills out. He looks _hurt_ , like he’s in pain and afraid and Derek has no idea what to do. He’s not even sure what’s going _on_ , but Stiles’ pulse is suddenly picking up, breaking out of the steady pace it had been in.

“You’re at my house,” Derek tells him slowly. “Out by the preserve. And you need to shut this down, okay? Just turn it off.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Stiles’ mouth is moving now, his tongue bright and his lips dark, with light poking through the little gaps in his teeth. “I’m not in control anymore.” 

Well, Derek’s good at dealing with a lack of control. That’s basically his life. He can do this. 

Derek reaches up, takes Stiles’ face into his hands. “It’s all you, okay? You can do it. You just need to find it in yourself, and I can help with that, alright? You helped me when I needed it, and I can be that for you. You’re my anchor; let me be yours, too.” He brings their foreheads together. “Your dad’s going to be okay. He woke up, alright? You’re going to be okay. Scott and Lydia and the rest of the pack are okay. They love you and they want you to be okay.”

“What about you?”

Derek shakes his head a little. Their foreheads are still touching and the feeling of rocking them together, like a cradle, it’s weirdly intimate. Stiles’ forehead is too warm and smooth and Derek wonders if he’s gotten blood on Stiles’ pale skin, or if it was all sucked back in as his skin regrew.

“I know you can do this. I believe in you. And if anything happened to you, I don’t know if I’d be able to recognize myself anymore. I’m stupid over you, but I guess you’re smart enough for the both of us.” A hand grips Derek’s shirt at his left side, the material bunching up in a white-knuckled fist. Derek can hear Stiles breathing: it’s a sharp sound made with a lot of effort, and it whistles through his teeth. His brow is furrowing, and Derek can feel the skin drawing tight. 

“If I die and you do something stupid because of it, I will haunt the _shit_ out of you,” Stiles grits out. 

“You’re not going to die. You can control this. You’re getting there. You can do this.” 

Stiles nods. “Maybe. But if I can’t…you owe me a dance, asshole.” 

“I do,” Derek agrees and he thinks he might be doing something dumber than usual. “Can you give me your hand?” he asks, holding out his right hand. His other settles on Stiles’ shoulder, thumb brushing against his collarbone. Stiles nods after a moment, and with an obvious effort, he lifts his hand to Derek’s. His grip is too tight, but that’s okay. “You have to promise not to make fun of me.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” Stiles says, and his smile is liquid and bright like the moon. 

“For the love of— Would you give it a rest for once? I’m trying to make a grand gesture and you’re not making it easy.”

Jerkily, Stiles shrugs. “Who would I be if I did?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says after a moment. And he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that it’s okay that he’s not a singer because he has other positive qualities, even though he’s not precisely sure what they are. “ _I’ve got you under my skin…_ ” he sings very quietly into Stiles’ ear. And after a moment, they sort of sway, as much as Stiles can.

Stiles presses his face in closer so their cheeks touch. His hand is too warm and Derek can feel the bones in his hand grating against each other. But as he keeps singing, the grip loosens a little. The hand at Derek’s side flattens against Derek’s waist and gradually slips around to the small of his back. His body is relaxing. Slowly.

With eyes shut tight, Derek keeps singing because he might be an idiot and he might not be very good, but he thinks it’s working. 

“ _Don’t you know, you fool, you never can win?_ ”

Stiles’ nose brushes against his ear, deliberate and gentle, tracing the arches. Goosebumps rise on the back of Derek’s neck, and he suppresses the urge to shudder. When Stiles runs his thumb over the veins in Derek’s wrist, he _does_ shudder, just a little. 

By the time he hits the last verse, the air around them is still and eerily quiet. Stiles’ heartbeat has slowed. 

Derek pulls back a little when he finishes. “You can go see your dad now that he’s awake.”

“Did I do it?” Derek frowns, then shrugs. 

“I don’t know. Maybe. But if you ever try something like that again, I’m going to kill you. And then Lydia will bring you back and Scott will probably kill you again. Or your dad will.”

Stiles smiles. “As long as he’s alive to do it, I don’t mind.” 

“Do you wanna go see him? We should call Scott, too. We thought you’d go for the hunters, so they’re all staking it out.”

“I _did_ consider it, but revenge doesn’t bring people back. And no one’s had a good run with revenge around here.” 

“Come on,” Derek says, jerking his head in the general direction of Deaton’s car. “Deaton’s waiting. Let’s go see your dad. Do you want to be the one to call Scott?” Derek pull out his phone, wiggling it in the air. 

“Does he know? About all this?”

Derek shakes his head. “Only me and Deaton know. If you swear to never try it again, we could keep it between the three of us. We can say we just found you sitting in the woods by yourself.”

“Maybe for now. Scott’ll be mad, won’t he?” Derek gives him a look. “Right, stupid question.”

“Come on, let’s find Deaton,” Derek says, and he leads Stiles off the porch, across a field of dead grass.

“ _Shit_ ,” Stiles breathes. He takes Derek’s hand and squeezes it. 

Derek sighs, following his gaze. “There was nothing alive here anyway. Just bones.” 

“Who—? I mean, was it just Laura who was here?” Derek shakes his head. Doesn’t want to think about it.

“My great-grandparents and my grandfather were near Laura.There wasn’t enough left to bury for the rest of my family. We, uh, didn’t have a choice about having the funeral in the cemetery, but we have our own rites.”

“The wolfsbane.”

Derek nods. “Alphas are always buried under a spiral of wolfsbane. It’s a sign of respect. Others, we plant it over their graves to return them to the earth. We just planted a few sprouts before we left, but none of them took. The soil wasn’t rich enough. No bodies.” It doesn’t really hurt thinking of them like this. Their spirits aren’t tied to the land or to their bodies. They’re somewhere else now. 

“My mom’s not at the cemetery either. She, uh, wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread over the ocean. My dad did it. He didn’t want me to have to see it.” Derek squeezes his hand and they walk into the woods, looking for Deaton. 

He’s backed a good distance away, and he turns the car on when he sees them, then gets out. 

“Looks like everyone’s alive. That might not have been the case,” he says, then gives Stiles a stern look.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. Never doing it again. I swear.”

“Will you take us back to the hospital?” Derek asks.

“I _do_ have my car, you know,” Stiles says.

Derek looks at him. “I don’t want you driving right now.” Stiles sighs, rolls his eyes, and pulls his keys out of his pocket. Hands them to Derek. 

“If you hurt my baby, I’ll hurt yours. Remember that.” 

Derek sighs. “We’re going to check on the Sheriff. Will you tell everyone that we found him and _just_ that?” Derek asks Deaton. He doesn’t look pleased, but he nods.

“Fine.” He looks at Stiles. “Can you deal with the wards so he can get out? Or do you need me to do it?”

“I can do it, I think.”

Deaton narrows his eyes. “I’ll lower the wards on my way out. You should rest.”

“I’ll drop the book off after we leave the hospital,” Stiles tells him and tugs Derek by the arm away. “My car’s in the driveway,” he says. 

“We could always burn it. The book, I mean,” Derek offers.

Stiles shakes his head quickly. “No, it wouldn’t like that. It’s testy. You should’ve seen what happened when I dog-eared one of the pages. It can get _hostile_.” 

“But it’s apparently a _great_ idea to use spells or whatever from it.” 

Stiles elbows him in the ribs. “It was a stupid decision, I know, can we get off it? I’ll beat myself up over it enough. I don’t need your help with that.” 

“You know why I’m upset about it, don’t you?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Because I didn’t think it through and I still don’t know what the consequences were. It was a bad decision, I know.”

“No,” Derek tells him, “you don’t. I’m upset because you endangered your life without thinking.” 

Stiles scoffs. “Yeah, like you don’t do that _all the time_.” 

“I endanger my life, yeah, but I think about it first. About the repercussions. I know how my death would affect other people, but I’m not sure you do.” 

“I _do_ , Jesus. You don’t think I know what it would do to my dad and Scott? I think about it, okay, I would just rather them be _alive_ to deal with it.” 

“Me too, you know. You’re my control, Stiles. If you die, I don’t know what I would have left to hold onto.”

Stiles doesn’t seem comfortable with that, and Derek regrets saying it, regrets putting that on him. “Well, I’m not going to be dying anytime soon, so don’t worry about it,” Stiles says. They’re at the Jeep, and Stiles starts to go around to the driver’s side, then remembers and goes to the passenger door. “I was serious about what I said about her,” Stiles says as he pats the hood lovingly. “You break her, I break yours.” 

“Get in the car,” Derek tells him. Stiles ducks to hide a grin as he swings into the passenger seat. 

With the windows down, Derek finds Deaton easily enough and they follow him out of the preserve. They stop at a certain point. Deaton gets out, and Derek and Stiles stall. They’re quiet. There’s a lot of things they could be saying, but Derek wants to do all of that in private. After they’ve seen the Sheriff. 

 

The ride to the hospital is basically silent. Stiles looks at the radio a couple of times, but he doesn’t turn it on. Derek can’t stop looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but it’s better than thinking about how many times Stiles’ hands have touched this steering wheel, how it must be saturated in him, about the taste of the sweat from Stiles’ hands, and then he reels himself in. Because that’s a little to Hannibal Lecter and he’s not going to go there. 

 

When they pull up, Stiles grabs his arm before he can get out of the car. 

“Dude. Look at you.” 

Derek looks down. His shirt is soaked in dried blood. His jeans are flaking. He looks like he took a clothed blood bath, minus his squeaky clean skin. 

“I’ve got some stuff in the back that you can change into. Gimme a sec.” Stiles leans over the center console, crawling halfway into the backseat. 

After rooting around in the little bit of trunk space he has for a moment, he emerges with a gym bag. There’s a lacrosse jersey — _Stilinksi_ _24_ — and a pair of Beacon Hills High red and white pants. The sweatshirt Derek ditches because it’s just not going to happen.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he says, and when Derek finds him, he smirks, but thankfully, he doesn't say anything. Derek probably looks like a high schooler. A high schooler who works out.

 

The Sheriff is barely awake when they get in to see him. Dozing, though. They haven’t sedated him, at least not that Derek can tell. 

His eyes crinkle open at them and a weak, half-hearted smile stretches his face like cold dough. “There’s my boys,” he says, his voice rough and metallic. “Took you long enough.”

“Missed you, Dad,” Stiles says. His voice breaks at the weight of it. He sits on the edge of the bed at his father’s side, touches his shoulder. He’s gentle, like he’s hyperaware of the Sheriff’s healing chest, the needles in his arm. Derek hovers behind, not sure if he’s supposed to be part of this tableau.

“Get in here, Derek. I see you lurking back there, don’t think I don’t.” Derek does as he’s told, moving up to a little behind Stiles’ shoulder. “I trust you’ve kept our little trouble-maker here from doing anything dramatic while I’ve been out.”

“Something like that,” Derek tells him. 

“Hey, I resent that! I’m not a trouble-maker.” The Sheriff gives Stiles a look. “Okay, well, Derek’s, like, the biggest drama queen _ever_ , so you should deputize someone else for the drama police.” 

“I’m not _that_ bad,” Derek mutters.

Stiles turns to give him a disbelieving face. “ _Dude_. Come on. The first step is admitting you have a problem.” 

“You two are chuckleheads,” the Sheriff says with a smile.

“I don’t even know what that means. Derek, do you know what that means? Because I don’t speak _old people_.”

“Hey! Watch yourself. I’m not old yet!”

Stiles raises an eyebrow at his dad. “Sorry, recent heart attack victim says _what_? And don’t think for a second that I’m not making sure you get an entire pharmacy of drugs for your cholesterol and whatnot. You thought I was bad _before_? Just you wait and see. This is _never_ happening again. Got it? Red meat is a thing of the past.”

“Yes _sir_ ,” the Sheriff says. He wiggles his eyebrows a little, but the line of his mouth says he’s taking it to heart.

“I’m completely serious.”

“I know you are.”

Derek stands there, feeling like he’s intruding, like he’s in the audience. It’s not pleasant. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says because it’s the only good out he can think of. They need to be alone. He’s in the way. He doesn’t belong here. 

Derek doesn’t really go to the bathroom. He goes across the hall from it and leans against the wall. Breathes. After a moment, he slides down until he hits the linoleum. The nice thing about Stiles’ athletic pants is that he can actually bend his knees in them and he doesn’t feel like his balls are in a nutcracker in this position, so that’s good. 

He’s trying not to eavesdrop is the thing. 

It doesn’t work. He’s too tuned-in to Stiles to stop if he doesn’t have something engaging to do. 

“ _I thought you two might be a little cozier_ ,” the Sheriff says.

“ _No, uh, we still have to work some things out. A few things._ ” He sighs, heavy. “ _Did you know about the girlfriend?_ ” The Sheriff doesn’t say something but his face must because Stiles snorts, says, “ _Of course you did._ ”

“ _I think you should talk to_ him _about it_.”

“ _Yeah, I know. I’m just…preparing myself for that particular conversation. He does stuff sometimes and I don’t think he gets what it looks like from my side of things._ ” Derek inhales sharply, nails making crescents in the meat of his palms. “ _And then sometimes he does really great things, and I’m just really confused. I mean, he sang me_ Sinatra _. Mom’s least favorite song, actually. I almost laughed, but he didn’t know, obviously._ ” 

“ _I wish she was here to hear that. She would have told you to ditch him for it._ ”

Stiles laughs. “ _I know_. _God, I know. She probably would’ve disowned him._ ” Derek’s stomach clenches. Disowning means there has to be some sort of initial ownership. It means he has to belong. To them. 

He goes back for that. To belong. To seek out a warm place to curl up.

Both of them turn their heads when he comes in the room. 

“I wanna talk to him,” the Sheriff says to Stiles. “Go break the vending machine again.”

“How the _hell_ do you know about that?”

“Come on, mysteriously toppled vending machine while my spazzy kid was spending the night? I did _earn_ my position, you know. Now go. And shut the door behind you.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, gets up, goes. After the click of the latch, the Sheriff pats the spot on the bed where Stiles had been sitting. 

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. I’m refusing to take sides in this whole mess. I just want to know…did he do anything stupid that I’m going to have to clean up when I’m back on my feet?”

Derek shakes his head. 

“Good. I worry about him, nothing new there, I know, but he can be impulsive. And _Lord knows_ he won’t tell _me_ anything. Remember that lacrosse game last year when I guess you guys were dealing with kanima stuff? When he went missing after the game, did you know he told me that he got picked up by some kids from the other team grabbed him and roughed him up? It wasn’t until Chris Argent _apologized_ to me the other day that I found out what really happened. I need someone I can count on to give me the ugly truth. If he gets himself into something that’s too much for him, I mean.” 

“I will. And I’ll do my best to keep him out of it in the first place.”

“Thanks. I know he’s growing up, but I don’t care _who_ says you’re a man at eighteen, it takes a helluva lot longer than that to grow up all the way.”

Derek shrugs. “We’ve all got some growing up to do.”

“Too true.” The Sheriff narrows his eyes, thinking. “Alright, I wasn’t going to say anything about it, but I can’t help it: whenever you two sort yourselves out, just give it to him straight. Don’t try and sugarcoat anything because I get the feeling you’ve done a lot of that and it hasn’t really gone well. So just don’t. You’ll thank me later. Oh, and _go home_. Melissa told me you were here _all_ night. Go get some rest, son. I think you’re gonna need it.” 

“Yes sir,” Derek says, smiling a little. It’s nice having someone who wants to take care of him. 

“And tell Stiles I’m going to go to sleep. I’m _wiped_. Alright?”

“Will do.”

 

Derek finds Stiles in the hall.

“He wants to sleep. You wanna say goodbye? I’ll drive you home.”

“Yeah, in _my_ car,” Stiles says, snorting. But he shrugs. “Yeah, just gimme a sec.” He pops his head in the door. “You better not try to go anywhere. I have Mrs. McCall’s number, you know. I’ll know.” 

“ _I can’t hear you. I’m sleeping_ ,” the Sheriff says, huffing a little.

“Love you.”

“ _Love you too._ ”

He gives Derek a look, daring him to say something about it. But Derek won’t. He’s a little jealous, honestly. 

"We should drop the book off at Deaton's. Before we forget," Derek says.

"I know. Jeez. Let's hit the road, Sundance."

Derek rolls his eyes. "If anyone's the Sundance Kid here, it's you."

"Fine: get in the car, Robin." Derek gives him a look. "Alfred?" Derek grimaces. "Yeah, that's weird, I'm gonna stop." 

Derek pulls out of the parking lot and Stiles turns to him with a satisfied grin.

"Tinman. You're the Tinman to my Scarecrow."

Considering it a minute, Derek shrugs. "I'll take it."

 

"Are you serious right now?  _This_ is the book? You thought that doing anything with this was a good idea? It looks like the Book of the Dead." Derek examines the dark cover with its weird lettering, the black pages.

"It's an illusion thing. It looks different depending on what you're expecting to see. But it's really not that bad, I promise."

" _No harm ever came from reading a book_ , right?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, grabbing the huge thing. " _Let_ 's go, big guy. Vamanos." 

 

"You can look at this under  _my_ supervision," Deaton says. "And my supervision only. Are we clear?"

"Crystal. Diamonds. Polished glass."

"Go home." Deaton sighs heavily, looking at both of them. He looks exhausted, with lines around his eyes that Derek doesn't remember him having.

“I haven’t eaten all day,” Stiles says as they head to the car. “Wanna grab something? I can call in to Mo’s.” Derek gives Stiles his phone.

“Go ahead. We can talk after.”

“Your place or mine?”

Derek shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me, but there’s no guarantee of privacy at mine.”

“Mine, then. You want a cheeseburger, right?” Derek nods and Stiles dials and makes the order. 

 

They’re quiet until they’re done with their burgers, though whether that’s because they’re hungry or dreading talking isn’t really clear to Derek. He wipes his mouth and hands with the final napkin and closes his styrofoam box, which makes a little squeal in the quiet kitchen. Stiles sucks the last few drops out of the bottom of his soda, noisy, and avoids Derek’s eyes. He sets the cup down with a sense of finality.

“Alright, let’s just get this over with: I need you to explain to me what the hell is going on with all of _this_.” He gestures mostly at Derek, but also at the space between them.

Derek takes a deep, deep breath, and when he talks, he talks slow, choosing his words carefully.

 

He explains that he's been trying to be a better person, that he thought he could find that person by running away from who he was when Kate found him, but it didn't work, that he didn't realize that the person he was becoming was a monster until he realized he loved Stiles. Because he's broken, a lot, and like most broken things, he has jagged edges and he doesn't want Stiles to get hurt because of it. And he talks about the person he  _wanted_ to be for Stiles, the good, caring, well-adjusted person that would treat him right.

And as he talks, he realizes what the problem is: he's not ever going to be that person because that Derek? Doesn't exist. And he shouldn't because he's just an escape, a justification for the things he's doing and feeling now. Because he's not really doing anything for the right reasons; he's doing things out of fear. Yeah, Derek's fucking  _terrified_ of losing everyone again and being the reason for it, terrified to the point that it's irrational because Stiles would never, ever do anything like what Kate did. They're Stiles' friends. Everyone Derek cares about is someone Stiles cares about, too.

Right now, he needs to trust himself that placing his trust in Stiles is the right decision. Because it  _is_. He needs to trust that they can work out their problems and not hurt each other and mostly, he needs to trust them both not to be perfect. He needs enough trust to allow them to be imperfect together, to have flaws and egos and make stupid mistakes. It's time to stop being afraid of being human.

Stiles looks at him, face very blank, for a long while. 

“You still haven’t explained why you thought it was a good idea to date someone else when you had feeling for _me_. Because I know I’m not an expert or anything, but I’m pretty sure that’s a _horrible_ idea.”

Derek winces. “I wanted practice, I guess. It was wrong, I know, and she deserves better than that, but I wanted to figure out how to be in a relationship so that we could have one.”

“Yeah? And what did you figure out?”

“That I only wanted to be with you,” he says, counting off on his fingers. “That people aren’t there to be relationship training wheels. That I was avoiding confrontation with my own feelings. That I made a mistake.” 

“Do you love her?”

“No.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“ _No_.” 

“And everything with Danny was only so that he wouldn’t kill anyone?”

“Yes.”

“What did my father tell you to say?”

“He just said to be honest. Which is what I’m doing.”

Mouth drawn tight, Stiles examines his face, his hands, for lies or some other evidence. His gaze makes Derek feel dissected, pulled out and put on display. 

“Are you even _attracted_ to me?” Stiles asks, face turning disbelieving. “Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t actually want to know.”

“I…yeah. More than I’m comfortable with. And I like you. I want to protect you. I care about you. I want to figure out what makes you happy and I want to show you what I see when I look at you, but I don’t know how.” Stiles’ mouth softens. His hands come together, one slipping behind the other. 

“I trust you,” Stiles says earnestly, “with my life, but I’m waiting for the punchline, you know? I’m not comfortable with liking you. I couldn’t ever tell anyone. They would think it’s weird or dangerous or unhealthy, or they _did_ , at least. And I couldn’t get why they weren’t seeing all the little good things you do, or all the things you try to do, even if they don’t work, or all the times you pretend you’re not being kind or that you don’t care. I thought, either no one else is _looking_ or they’re just not there to see it. When you’re just _Derek_. Not the Alpha, not _Derek Hale_ , just Derek. 

“So I thought there must have been something wrong with me—“ _that_ stings “—because it would make sense. There’s a lot of things wrong with me, and I know that sometimes I don’t react to things right. _Let me tell you_ about all of the poorly-timed boners, okay? Or not, because that would probably be mortifying. But the thing is, I’m not normal, in a kind of bad way, and I know that, so I just don’t get what the _hell_ you see in me that you like. I don’t get it at all. And, like, I wouldn’t even get it if it was just a sex thing because I’m not the kind of person people find attractive.”

“ _False_ ,” Derek says before he can stop himself. “Really false. As in, I have no idea how you came to that conclusion.”

“Yeah? Name _one_ person, other than you, who thinks I’m hot. Just one.”

Derek frowns. “I don’t know most of the people you go to school with, and with the pack, they’ve already picked up on the fact that I do, so they won’t compete. Subconsciously, I mean. The pretty much _can’t_ be attracted to you at this point.”

“Wow. Right. Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. I mean, you could just _say_ that no one—“

“Peter did, alright? And Deucalion.” He spits the names a little.

Stiles sets his chin on his hand, blinking at Derek for a moment. “So what you’re saying is that only werewolves who are both creepy and significantly older than me find me attractive. And all three of you are alphas. So what you’re really saying is that I’m alphabait. Am I getting this straight? Because that’s _really not helping_.”

“It’s not…It’s your personality—“

“Oh Jesus, are you seriously going with my _winning_ _personality_?”

Derek gives him a look. “ _If you’ll let me finish_ , I was trying to say that from a werewolf point of view, which, _by the way_ , is basically the point of view I’m limited to because the only people I see you with are _in a werewolf pack,_ your personality is combative and assertive and you wouldn’t take orders from an alpha well. That means that the only long-term place you could have in a centralized pack would be as an alpha’s equal. Instinctively, the rest of a pack knows not to think of you in those terms because if you joined a pack as their significant other, the power dynamics would be thrown off. _That said_ , I don’t have any human mutual acquaintances that aren’t pack, so I really couldn’t tell you what _they_ think. But I would assume that if they have _working_ _eyes_ , they would find you attractive. Because, in case this was in any way unclear, you’re _gorgeous_ and sometimes it hurts to look at you. And I’m not _just saying that_.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes, mouth quirking from side to side as he digest that. Derek has no idea what he’s thinking. 

“So,” Stiles says after a moment, “what you’re saying is that you totally want to tap this?” 

That’s not exactly an easy one to answer. 

Well, it _is_ , it’s just that Derek doesn’t particularly like his answer.

“Yes,” Derek tells him, “but I would rather not, you know, _rush_ _anything_. I don’t…I don’t think I’m ready for that at this point. Emotionally.” That’s a little more honest that he’d like. It’s not an answer he likes, anyway. Because as much as he doesn’t want to, well, _corrupt_ Stiles, he’s genuinely afraid of being in an actual sexual situation, and he feels like that means he’s damaged goods. 

“That’s fair.” Looking at his eyes, Stiles _means_ it, more than he says out loud. “I think it hurts to look at you, too,” Stiles says. “If it helps. I mean, I know you know you’re, like, carved by angels or whatever. But so is Jackson, and _his_ personality makes him a total turn-off. Mostly it hurts to look at you because I was never sure what was really going on. Like, yeah, we cuddle like bunnies most nights, but I wasn’t sure if that was just a werewolf-y thing or if it was a me and you thing. You’re a very confusing person. In case you didn't know that. _Very_ confusing.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t, like, try to jump my underage bones the first time we met. I like you better confusing than skeevy. I mean, I know you’re a predator, but I’m glad you’re not, like, the type who can’t drive by schools. Although, for the record, your behavior on school grounds has always been a little sketchy. But I like to think it’s just a part of your natural charisma.”

Derek gives him a dry look.

“ _Anyway_. So. Uh. What are you doing after this?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. What am I doing after this?”

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question,” Stiles says. “I actually don’t know if you have plans, you know, some casual lurking or a hot date to get to.  If you _want_ , you could stay over. I certainly wouldn’t _mind_ , but no pressure. If you’re busy or just not really interested…I don’t know. We do this all the time, don’t we? I don’t know why I’m acting like it’s different. If anything, I should be more certain about what’s going on. But I’m not. I’m really not.” 

“It’s been a long day,” Derek says, feeling very awkward all of a sudden. Like he can’t really say what he means either.

“Yep. It has.” Stiles presses his lips together, nodding, then narrows his eyes. “Is that, like, a signal phrase or something? Because if you’re trying to say we should go upstairs, I’m down, I just don’t know what you…what you’re comfortable with. Not like that. I mean, upstairs doesn’t have to mean, uh, you know, the beast with two backs, I just—“

“ _The beast with two backs_? Is that— _Really_? Of all of the euphemisms out there, _that’s_ the one you choose to go with?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’ll have you know that this is a high pressure situation and I’m not at my best. Anyway, that’s not the point: do you want to go to my rooms and maybe watch a movie? I swear, I will keep my hands on top of the blanket.”

Derek smirks, nods. “Come on. Maybe we’ll figure out how to stop being weird about it.”

They don’t touch at all on the way upstairs, which is uncomfortable, actually. Usually, they bump into each other all the time and Derek feels each collision as a burst of warmth in his gut. But there’s a palpable distance now, like strings pulling them apart. 

When they get into Stiles’ room, they both stare at the bed without speaking for a very long time.

“Maybe this was a bad idea. We could watch something downstairs?” Stiles suggests. 

Derek doesn’t really know how to respond to that. So they stand there for a while more, until it’s so awkward that Stiles is forced to speak again. 

“I mean, I can sit in the chair if you want?” Derek looks at the chair, visualizes Stiles sitting in it and himself sitting on the bed, gets a sudden fantasy flashback, and shakes his head sharply. 

“No, no, you definitely should _not_ do that. That would…let’s just take that off the table for now.” 

“Is that…code for something? I didn’t know my chair was that offensive to you. Should I roll it out of the room, or…?”

Derek shakes his head. “No, leave the chair. The chair is fine. There’s nothing wrong with the chair. Sorry, I just— I don’t know what to do.” He looks at Stiles out of the corner of his eye, and Stiles is staring at him. Derek doesn’t look away because it’s helping him, the eye contact. It’s helping him remember where he is, that Stiles’ room is safe, that _Stiles_ is safe, that it's okay if they're not good at being _whatever_. He’s safe, and he’s beautiful, and his face holds shadows in a way that makes him look real and darkly human. 

“I can’t tell if you’re giving me the bedroom eyes right now or what.”

“I mean, we’re in a bedroom, so arguably, my eyes _have_ to be bedroom eyes.”

Stiles gives him a look. “ _Rea_ lly? He’s got jokes now, look at that.” Derek loops an arm around his shoulders, the other sliding to the top of his head, like he’s going to give Stiles a noogie, but then he realizes that Stiles is as tall as him and that they’re standing very close. Derek’s hand slips through his hair to just over Stiles’ ear. There’s heat under his scalp, and Derek can kind of feel the way his skin slips over his skull, the pulse in his cranial arteries. His eyelashes look darker than normal, or maybe it’s just his eyes. And they’re warm. When they slide over Derek’s face, they leave warm trails. 

After a second, Derek realizes that he’s tracing a constellation between the moles at the curve of Stiles’ jaw and just beneath his ear. His full mouth fell open at some point, and Derek is having trouble looking away from the tiny wrinkles in his lips. He wants to know if he could feel them, if he touched them. Which is apparently a dangerous thought, because he’s touching and he can’t feel them, not really, but they’re _there_ , he can see them. Maybe with his tongue?

Stiles lets a little breath against Derek’s mouth, and he stops, right before the moment of collision. 

“ _Shit_ , I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—“

“No, it’s okay. I want to,” Stiles says, and Derek can feel it against his lips. “I just need you to tell me what’s too much, okay? Because I don’t know what the line is here.”

“I’ll let you know.” Derek leans in that last inch, mouth sealing over Stiles’ upper lip. The softness of it breaks him, and he pulls away because somehow, he has no air in his lungs. When he dives in again, Stiles meets him in a rush of hot breath and stumbling presses of his lips until Derek opens up and lets him in. He tastes sweet, like the root beer he had with dinner, and at the first brush of tongue, Derek’s knees give out. 

They go down _hard_ , and for a moment, Derek lays there with the wind knocked out of him and Stiles sprawled across his body, just trying to breathe. Stunned. After a second, Derek tastes blood, and he feels around his mouth to make sure he still has his tongue — just bit his cheek, it seems — and he looks at Stiles and Stiles looks at him, and then they’re _laughing_. Uncontrollably. Stiles’ chest is heaving on top of his. There’s an unfamiliar ache in his belly, and he can’t _breathe_. He tries gasping for breath between half-sobs. There’s a stubby press of Stiles' fingers gripping his shoulder as he falls apart and _what_. 

“I can’t believe—“ That just makes Stiles laugh too hard to continue. The sound is close to Derek’s ear. His breath comes out in percussive bursts against the juncture between Derek’s neck and shoulder. Derek’s mouth splits impossibly wider, and he just lets himself laugh until he’s done. 

Stiles shuffles down on his body and sets his ear on Derek’s collarbone when he calms down. They lay there like that, in a perfect void of silence, for a few bright seconds. 

“Okay, but seriously, did you just fall over? Did that just happen?” Derek can feel his grin a second before Stiles lifts up his head to look at him. Meeting his eyes, Derek can’t hold in a little laugh. He shakes his head, looks away. “I mean, I’m just impressed that we didn’t accidentally bite anything _off_.” 

The corners of Derek’s mouth spread in a smile before he can stop it because that would have been _tragic_ and utterly unsurprising. 

“ _And when you smile…the whole world stops and stares for a while_ ,” Stiles sings against his ear, a little off-key. Derek snorts, ruffling his hair. “Hey, I’m a little jealous that you were smiling at Bruno Mars before you smiled at me, okay?” 

“Shut up,” Derek tells him, and because he’s an idiot, he kisses the arch of Stiles’ eyebrow. When Stiles tilts his face up: the tip of his nose. A  little more: a slow press against his mouth, soft and gentle. Stiles cups his jaw, and Derek thinks he’s going to deepen the kiss, but he draws back. 

“Howabout we get somewhere comfortable? I’m gonna have sympathy back pain otherwise.” 

Derek nods, helps him up before getting to his feet. His stupid knees aren’t really weak anymore, but he feels betrayed by them and the rest of his body, and he might hobble a little to Stiles' bed.

“ _Drama queen_ ,” Stiles hisses, tugging him by the hand towards his bed as they try to kick their shoes off. “Don’t limp for my benefit because I refuse to give you any pity.”

“Liar,” Derek tells him, and he doesn’t need to hear Stiles’ heart for that. Somehow, in the process of getting off his left shoe, he ends up with his face buried in Stiles’ neck. Probably because he may very well have tripped, but that can’t really be proven. It's okay, anyway, because he can feel Stiles’ vocal chords jump when he laughs, right against his cheek. It’s a nice place to be, since there’s a lot of places Derek wants to put his mouth, and Stiles’ adam’s apple is a good one. And the column of his throat, vibrating under his lips when Stiles hums. The soft skin beneath his jaw…

“You’re a menace, you know that?” 

Derek pulls up to look him in the face, pops his eyebrows. “Do I _terrify_?” Stiles’ smile is sweet and unimpressed, so Derek kisses it. Stiles’ hands slip into his hair and hold him close so he can drive Derek insane with soft presses and the occasional flash of tongue. It’s wet and messy and they’re making stupid noises that they should probably be embarrassed about, but Derek can’t bring himself to care. Their teeth clash a couple times, jarring, but Stiles grins when Derek pulls away to make sure it’s okay, that he hasn’t messed up too much. And Stiles ruffles his hair and leans up to take his mouth again. 

It doesn’t feel like time is passing at all, but it goes too fast. He knows that at some point, they roll onto their sides and kiss small with their noses brushing. Their bodies are touching, their faces are only an inch away, and they trade kisses back and forth with no urgency. It feels like each one is a little _thank you_ , or maybe a promise of something, but Derek’s not sure what he means by them. 

And then Stiles seals his mouth tight across Derek’s, hand cupping his jaw, and he licks in slow and sure. It’s meaningful, too, but that’s something else Derek doesn’t understand. There’s a language to it, and Derek wants to learn; he’s willing to put in the time for it. But it’s something Stiles is saying, that’s for sure, in the determine roll and curl of his tongue and the thumb feeling the hollow made by his cheekbone and open mouth. 

Derek’s hand slips around his neck, pulls him in tighter. He wants to _taste_ Stiles, but no, that’s not it. He wants to learn him, each groove of his molars, the bumps of his gums and the roof of his mouth, the slickness inside his cheeks. He wants to know Stiles’ mouth better than anyone, almost. As well as Stiles knows it himself. 

Stiles is so warm against him, their bodies lined up almost exactly. The difference is only that Stiles’ legs are longer, torso shorter, so their hips are just out of alignment. But Derek feels impossibly close, closer than he’s ever been to anyone, and yes, he’s been inside someone, but it felt like that free lunch you end up paying for in the end. This is an allowance and a comfort and a measure of trust. They have enough trust, Derek knows that from the way he doesn’t instinctively flinch away from Stiles’ hands. 

The kiss quickens a little, feels a little harder; he can feel Stiles’ teeth against his from behind their lips. Derek wants it, wants to get closer, but there’s really only so close they can get before it’s impossible. 

Stiles breaks away, and Derek tries not to think about what the sound does to his body. He’s panting and flushed and he presses their noses together.

“I need to go. I think I passed the point of no return a _while_ ago, if you know what I mean.”

“Hmmm?” Derek was staring at Stiles’ mouth, how dark and full it is, and he knows the shapes it made, but he has no idea what Stiles just said.

His mouth smiles. “I should head to the bathroom and take care of this before it gets weird,” he says, pulling away and slipping out of bed with a jerky little hop. Derek sits up, touches his hand. “I’ll be _right_ back. Like, it’ll be embarrassing how soon I’ll be back.” Derek hazards a glance at his pants and feels a little weird.

“You’re going to go jerk off,” Derek says.

“ _No_ , Einstein, _I’m going to fix my mascara_ ,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Yeah. Just gotta clear the pipes. I’m pretty sure it would be mood killer and, like, _muy_ embarrassing to come in my pants, so…I’ll be right back.” He does a funny little run, and Derek grins to himself, falling back onto Stiles’ pillows. He hears the bathroom door latch shut, the toilet paper dispenser spin, the rip as he tears a strip off. Derek doesn’t mean to do it, but he sort of adjusts himself when he hears Stiles unzip his jeans like his life depends on it. Adjusting himself takes a little longer than it maybe should, lingering a little. And _that_ is the sound of Stiles spitting into his hand.

“ _Oh Jesus fuck_ —“ 

It’s possible Derek makes a noise at that, but it’s a very small one. He can hear skin slapping against skin, nails scratching against porcelain, Stiles’ rapid breathing and pulse. Derek lets out a harsh breath when he grinds his palm into his crotch and this is _inappropriate_ , to say the least. It’s bad, really bad, and he’s not going to pay attention. He’s going to focus on something else. Right. Stiles has a popcorn ceiling. He’s probably intimately familiar with the pattern of the bumps, probably looks up at them all the time. 

When he’s jerking off.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek mutters, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He rubs his face, ends up bent over his thighs with his elbows on his knees. And he’s thinking about the weather, about how nice it’ll be once it warms up a little more, and the Sheriff’s told him that the Station’s annual barbecue is in March, so that’ll be nice when it happens. Shit, they’re going to have to pretend he and Stiles aren’t too friendly. Stiles will still be seventeen then, won't he? 

“ _Oh G_ —“ 

Derek groans, rubbing his temples. _Barbecue_. Barbecue food, barbecue grills, picnic tables, ants and bird shit, splinters. Deputies. A herd of deputies. Bona fide law enforcement, his peers. And he will only be doing appropriate things in front of those peers with the handcuffs in their belts.

 _Do not think about handcuffs_ , he tells himself. _Under no circumstances_. 

S’mores over a barbecue pit, Stiles toasting a marshmallow to perfection and offering it Derek as he licks sugar off his fingers—

“Sorry about that,” Stiles says. Derek looks up and he’s standing there with his hand on the doorknob.

Derek swallows. “I might…need to do that,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the bathroom after a second. “Maybe. Just give me a minute.” He rests his head in his hands again, and he’s going to _think_ his way out of this.

“I can do that. Yeah, no problem. I’m just gonna—“ he takes a light-footed step to the bed, then reconsiders and heads to the other side of the room. When Derek looks up this time, he’s sitting in the chair. Which shouldn’t be a thing for him but it _is_.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Derek groans.

“What?” Stiles looks down and leaps up. “Sorry. I forgot. About the chair. And your thing with it.” He nods, jamming his hands into his pockets. “Uh, what _is_ the thing with the chair, exactly?” Derek winces.

“I, um. I have very specific fantasies?” There’s no good way to say it.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Involving the chair? We do it in the chair? Not to be… _how_ , exactly? It’s just, it’s a pretty small chair, and I probably need a couple months of yoga before anything acrobatic goes down.” 

“No, not— I don’t even know how that would work. It’s not…it’s not about the chair, it’s about you _sitting_ in the chair. Especially when I’m over here. It’s not a big deal or anything, I’m just dealing with a little situation. It’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Do you want me to just stand here? Or I could go get something to drink? I don’t know what you need right now.”

“Could you maybe open the window?” Derek manages. Because it smells in here, good, like arousal and warmth and Stiles, but that’s not helping his situation any. 

Stiles opens the window, turns around, and says, “If you _do_ need to go, uh, take care of things, no judgement. Obviously. Since I just…or you could do it here. I could leave, or…not. I don’t have to leave if you don’t want.” Derek looks up and his eyes are probably red, yeah, because he’s frustrated and turned on and that suggestion is _so_ not helping. 

( _He always had to keep them shut with Kate. Because he hadn’t told her. Couldn’t risk her seeing electric blue. She used to tease him about it._ )

Well, _that_ does the trick, apparently. 

“I’m fine. We’re good. Sorry.” 

“No, it’s cool. I’m, like, the master of weirdly-timed boners,” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his head. “I just don’t want to push you or anything. Trying to leave the comfort zone intact.”

Derek smiles, to show his appreciation, and Stiles matches it. 

“I know it’s early still, but do you wanna go to bed? I’m pretty much wiped. I don’t wanna fall asleep on you.”

“No,” Derek says, “that sounds good. I’m tired. I could sleep.” Well, he sounds like a weirdo, so that’s good. Great. He gets up, grabs his usual sleep shirt for here. Looking down, he realizes that he’s still wearing Stiles’ jersey and pants. Oh yeah. “Hey do you have— I just, when I was borrowing your clothes earlier, I thought it was kind of weird—“ Derek takes a deep breath, tries again. “My underwear were, uh, not spared. Could I borrow some of yours? Or just shorts or something, I don’t care.” 

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “Of course, yeah, the top drawer. I don’t know what’ll fit.” Derek opens the drawer, ignores the box of condoms behind Stiles’ socks, and sees if there’s anything that could work. Boxers are a no-go because Stiles’ are a little snug on _him_ , so Derek probably wouldn’t even be able to get them up his hips. But there’s a couple pairs of briefs in dark colors, towards the back of the drawer. Derek pulls a pair out.

“These are new,” he says, raising an eyebrow. And he knows, not just because he hasn’t seen them, but because he can smell the packaging. 

“Yeah, you know. I needed new underwear and, like, _Scott_ doesn’t even exclusively wear boxers anymore, probably because of Allison, and I thought…Whatever, it doesn’t matter. That gonna work? I think I have a pair of basketball shorts in the bottom drawer if they don’t.” Derek holds up the briefs and yeah, they’ll be tight, but they should work. “I’m just gonna turn around.” Derek changes quickly, sighing a little at the familiar comfort of the sleep shirt. 

Stiles slips out of his jeans, kicks them in the general direction of the dirty clothes pile in his closet, and walks with a hand over his eyes to the dresser.

“I’m not naked,” Derek tells him, smirking. Stiles’ hand drops. 

“Forgive me for trying to preserve your dignity,” he says, sticking his tongue out. Derek shakes his head and pulls back the covers on the bed, slips inside. Stiles changes his shirt and shuts off the light, manages not to trip over anything on the way to his bed. Scooting over to make room, Derek lifts up the covers for him. Stiles settles against him neatly. Front to front. Derek wants to kiss his face again, but he doesn’t. 

“I like you too much,” he says honestly.

“Nah,” Stiles says, snuggling in closer. “I think you like me just enough.” 

Derek does kiss him then, just a little peck, and slides down a little. Stiles rolls onto his back, and Derek settles his head on his chest, opposite his heart, and throws a leg over Stiles’. A warm hand slides over his tattoo, the other cradling his forearm, and it’s pretty comfortable. They shift minutely for a couple minutes, settling in exactly right, and Derek lets himself be hypnotized by the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest. 

“Do you ever wish it was someone else?” Stiles asks. “Someone other than me, I mean. To be your anchor and all of that.”

“Only because I cared about you too much to wish it on you. I wished it could be someone I care less about, but that would defeat the purpose, I think.”

“A bit, yeah,” Stiles says, and Derek can hear him smiling. “You’re not going to get all poetic on me, are you? Scott writes this ridiculous poetry for Allison sometimes, all _I’m a wolf and you’re my moon_.” He chuckles a little, the sound reverberating beneath Derek’s ear.

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

Stiles shrugs a little. “It’s supposed to be romantic, I think.”

“But that’s the opposite of an anchor. The moon makes you lose control. An anchor gives it back. It's what keeps you human. It’s not good to have someone who makes you lose control. An anchor is supposed to make you _want_ to hold on, to everything.”

“I keep you human?”

“You make me _want_ to be human. So that I can’t hurt you.”

“Humans can hurt humans, you know.”

Derek frowns. “On accident, I mean. I don’t want to hurt you on accident. I don’t want to hold your hand too hard one day and break it.”

“But you wouldn’t,” Stiles tells him, like it’s a fact. “That’s the point, isn’t it? That you want to protect me too much for that to happen. You couldn’t hurt me on accident because you control yourself too well. Unless I’m wrong. I could be, I’m not the expert—“

“You’re not wrong. Sometimes I just get caught up in worrying about hurting you.”

“Hey, don’t be fooled by my girly hips. I’m wiry, you know. Tougher than I look. And you know what they say: skinny guys fight until they’re hamburger.” 

Derek shakes his head, burrowing into Stiles’ chest. “Don’t talk like that. I know you’re more than capable. But I don’t want to think of you and violence in the same sentence.” 

Stiles’ hand slips into his hair, massages his scalp, and somewhere in that feeling, he falls asleep.

 

Derek wakes up alone, hearing the flush of a toilet. He stretches out a little, props himself up to see Stiles’ alarm clock. Sighs. It’s late morning already. Must have needed more sleep than he thought. 

Stiles comes in quietly, sees Derek moving. “Want breakfast? I could make something.” 

“Let’s make pancakes,” Derek says because there are little things that he wants, and if he can make them happen, he will.

He ends up smearing pancake batter across Stiles’ cheek, his nose, so he can get in close to wipe it off. That, of course, devolves into kissing, which devolves into Derek accidentally putting his hand on the electric burner which, yeah, hurts like a bitch. It’s ugly, too, at first, and he doesn’t let Stiles see it, just runs cool water over his palm until the skin fades to a muted pink.

The pancakes turn out pretty alright. Stiles has a little of the powder mix in the hollow beneath his ear, from Derek’s hands, and when they’re done eating, Derek rubs it away with a thumb. The way Stiles sinks into the touch makes him feel too big and too small for his body. 

“You wanna go visit my dad?” Stiles asks as they put on clothes. Derek’s only really got Stiles’ clothes from yesterday.

“We should get my car, if it hasn’t been stolen. And I should put on my own clothes. Shower. I could meet you there, if you wanted.” He has to call Sarah, too. That’s not something he wants to draw out. Better to get it over with, dive into the freezing water. 

“Alright. Come on.” 

 

Derek’s car _is_ , in fact, still there. Totally operational, too. He lets Stiles press him up against the door for a lingering kiss before they go their separate ways. 

 

Derek showers and puts on his own clothes before making the call. It takes a few rings before Sarah answers.

“ _Hey, what’s up? I haven’t heard from you in a couple days._ ”

“The Sheriff had a heart attack,” Derek tells her. “It’s been rough on everyone. I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Do you want to get coffee or something and talk?”

“ _Right now? I’m a little busy at the moment. I can make time, I mean, but can it wait?_ ”

“Yeah, I guess so. If you’re busy.”

“ _Is this a good talk or a bad talk?_ ” she asks, and Derek winces. “ _Do I want to know which it is?_ ”

“I don’t…I’m not sure.”

“ _So it’s a bad talk then. Or you would have told me it wasn’t anything to worry about. Okay. Do you wanna just get it over with right now_?”

“Over the phone? Isn’t that kind of a faux pas?” That makes her sigh, a little tired. _Shit_. Now she knows, doesn’t she?

“ _Look,_ ” she says, “ _let’s just be upfront: we’ve dated for a couple months, no big deal. I like you and I would like it to be more, but that’s not what you want, is it? And that’s okay, let’s just get it out there_.”

“Yeah, I…it was bad timing in the first place. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started something. I’m a jerk?” He’s _really_ not sure how the hell to do this, not by a longshot, and it’s probably (definitely) coming across. He’s not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

“ _Look, it’s whatever. I mean, maybe I should have figured it out sooner because you never_ once _tried to get into my pants, but whatever. It’s fine_.” She sounds annoyed, and she has every right to be. She has a right to be a lot more, actually. “ _At least I’m not in love with you this time_.” That _is_ for the best. It would have made all of this so much worse.

“I’m sorry. For wasting your time.”

“ _Whatever. It’s fine. Look, I have to go. I am actually kind of busy, but if you want to hang out as friends or something, I guess you could give me a call_.” That doesn’t sound promising; it sounds polite. 

“I won’t bother you. Sorry.” He winces. “Have a good day.”

“ _Yeah. You too_.”

He hangs up and stares at his phone.

_Well then._

_That_ was awkward and uncomfortable and horrible. Alright then. At least it’s over with. 

 

Stiles texts Derek as he’s on his way over to the hospital. At a red light, he reads:  **He’s making me go to school, the fascist. I’ll see you later :/**

Derek snorts, smiles to himself. The Sheriff’s probably just making sure he doesn’t get held back another year. He wouldn’t, anyway, because Derek knows, since Stiles told him once, that he only has a single absence so far in the year. Even though he can apparently miss one day every two weeks and not have to make up any hours. Because he thought that figuring that out was a good use of his time. Of course. 

 

The Sheriff looks a little bit better, but not much. There’s a little more color in his cheeks and he seems to be more awake, but as Mrs. McCall tells him, he’ll be here for another few days at least. 

Or, as the Sheriff says, “I don’t think they’re going to let me out of this goddamn hell hole. If I never see vanilla pudding again, it’ll be too soon.” 

“Mrs. McCall says over the weekend, maybe.”

“Yeah, they _say_ that, but they’re just trying to get your hopes up. I swear. I hate hospitals.”

Derek shrugs, not wanting to really touch that. “Everyone does. Do you want anything? I could bring something for you, a book or something.”

“Nah, I’ve got a TV and they have more channels than we do at home. How’re you doing? I heard you guys worked everything out.” He grins, wiggling his eyebrows. Derek rolls his eyes, smiling anyway.

“Yeah. We’re good now.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “I broke up with Sarah before I came over. That was _weird_. I’ve never broken up with anyone before.”

The Sheriff nods. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. It had to be done. I have no interest in seeing two people.” He shrugs. “I do have to say, I feel like I’m not on the good side of the law.”

“He’s just about eighteen, and anyway, _I_ ’m certainly not going to be pressing charges. And I’ll look the other way for a little stubble burn if you’ll do the same for me when I sneak some a side of bacon. He’s going to try to make me an _herbivore_.” The Sheriff shudders.

Derek winces. “I don’t know if I can do that. He’d kill me for enabling you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Sheriff says, batting a hand. “I know where your loyalties lie.”

“Look, Sheriff—“

“Are you _still_ calling me that? Come on. I think we’ve reached the point of _some_ familiarity.”

Derek sort of shuffles, asks, “What should I call you, then?”

“Well, _by my first name_ , for one. Or you could just call me ‘dad’. I don’t mind it any. I get the feeling we’re going to be knowing each other for a long, long time. But no pressure.”

“Yeah, no, I can do that,” Derek says. “I can definitely do that.” 

"Good! Now, is the station in total disarray?" 

Derek shrugs guiltily. "I haven't been down to the station, to be honest. But I believe Michaels should be filling in while you're on leave?"

"Capable guy, good. One day, that'll be you, you know. If you want it." 

Ducking his head, Derek doesn't answer at first, but he feels warm.

"Thanks, Dad," he says under his breath,but he knows it's loud enough to be heard.

 

Derek has an errand to run before Stiles finishes school. It takes a couple hours, and by the time he's done, he has enough time to go for a quick run while Stiles goes to lacrosse practice. 

 **Come over to mine?** he sends, sitting on the couch. It smells like the pack; they must have come over yesterday. That's good, that they know that it's okay. 

An hour later, Stiles knocks at the door. 

" _Come in!_ " Derek yells. He slips his hand over his pocket, feeling the reason he asked Stiles over. Well, other than in general.  _  
_

Stiles drops his backpack by the coffee table. "So I might have slipped that you asked me to come over, and everyone else is going to Lydia's. I would be worried that they know something's up, but, hey, not exactly the first time, is it?" He flops down next to Derek, close enough that their thighs are touching. "Dad was looking better, right?"

"Yeah, he was." Derek nods for too long, nervous.

"What's up?" 

"Hmm?" Derek asks, glancing at him. "Oh. It's nothing. It's stupid. It's really no big deal."

Stiles nudges him in the ribs with his elbow. "Come on. Spit it out."

"Fine. I— I want you to have this."

Still warm from his pocket, he holds out a freshly-cut key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore  
> Underage character (by like three months so....)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings:
> 
> a shit ton of graphic violence in this chapter in particular  
> implied threat of sexual assault against a minor  
> references to suicide (a la the Argents' suicide pact)  
> description of a panic attack

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Are we winning?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094123) by [liquorish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquorish/pseuds/liquorish)




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